A Song of Ice and Fire: War of the Expanse
by Deezmartini
Summary: The series A Song of Ice and Fire (Game of Thrones) set to a science fiction setting. Jon Snow allies with the Lannisters, Daenerys successfully delivers her baby.Read as you find a familiar and well-written world that you know placed in a realm where technology and the ancient art of swordplay coexist in harmony, while your favorite characters face new and dangerous challenges.
1. RHAEGAR

Rhaegar Targaryen never liked war. He despised blood, hated death, and the screams of men with their innards spilling was in dire conflict with the melodic sound of his music. But he was prince, and war was his duty, his vocation. To rule, one had to be strong, and to be strong, you must learn to contend with the very thing you hate.

_Fire and Blood. _The motto of his House. He descended from Aegon Targaryen, who flew from Dragonstone and conquered the black Expanse known to all men. Now, his ancestor's sovereignty was being brought into question. And for what? Rhaegar's eyes stung as a strand of silver hair fell a purple pupil. He brought a hand to his face, fingers clasped in metal and steel. He pushed his hair away from his lilac eyes, while the sounds of war approached over the dark hills of the Riverlands. His own host stood behind him, forty five thousand strong. But they were feeble sellswords, squires, peasants. Not true warriors, few knights. most of them were unmounted.

"He comes." Jonothor Darry's voice broke Rhaegar's concentration. The man was clad in battle armor, his face covered by a green visor. Underneath him, his warmachine _hummed_, the man's fingers twitching at the controls. Rhaegar was similarly mounted, his sword strapped to his back.

"And so he does. Have you received word of my wife? My children?" Rhaegar asked. Jonothor nodded solemnly.

"Last I have heard, they are safe, My Prince." Rhaegar would not allow himself to relax, not yet.

"And what of her . . ."

"She is at the Tower, guarded. She is safe as well."

_Then If I die this day, I can die in peace. All of this, I did for you. Lyanna. _

The rebel army appeared over the muddied hills as light rain drizzled upon them. Hardened men, armored and mounted, made up the front of the attacking force, with thousands of foot soldiers trailing after them. Rhaegar saw him then.

_Robert Baratheon. _

Sloping shoulders were dressed in massive black pauldrons, while two wicked horns plucked from a great elk sprouted from large dimples at either side of his helmet. A warmachine painted the color of night growled, coughing out puffs of dark smog that settled over the rebel king like storm clouds. The land seemed to be basked in shadow, and in the distance, a splintering strike of lightning colored the sky in vengeful anguish, hues of blue crashing against smoldering ashen veil.

"Shall I lead the charge, My Prince?" Jonothor asked. Rhaegar shook his head, pulling a visor over his face.

"No. This is my duty." Rhaegar responded coolly. The rain continued, monstrous swirls of wind making the grass between the two armies sway like waves under the attack of a tempest. Trees, beautiful and green and wicked shook in the wind, brilliant vermillion leaves prematurely ripped from thick branches.

"Sound the horn." Rhaegar commanded. Jonothor Darry repeated the order behind him, and soon enough, the shattering call of House Targaryen sounded.

They charged.

Rhaegar sped down the hill, the sound of Lord Darry and his other knights beside him filling Rhaegar with much needed bravery. Robert descended as well, his rebel lords and knights following. The time it took for them to meet in battle seemed to stretch, Rhaegar's vision centering on the massive Robert. His eyes did not see, his mouth uttered no words. They were mere feet away from each other, Robert's face concealed with a menacing helm, sharp horns screaming for a taste of blood-

Rhaegar's ears exploded as the lines crashed into one another. Machine and man melded in terror, dark and maroon colored rain water spraying into the air as men died instantly. Rhaegar looked about him, Robert nowhere to be seen. He turned his attention forward, controlling his warmachine as he gunned down knights and men about him, all wearing rebel colors. Suddenly, an explosion rocked him, destroying his mount and sending him flying into the air. Rhaegar landed with a heavy _thud, _his visor beeping as it recalculated his location, numbers and letters filling his field of vision. From a close distance, a man charged at him, shooting and swearing. Rhaegar's personal shield activated, a green orb that absorbed the blasts, and he drew his own weapon.

It was a simple hilt but when activated a black blade, darker than night appeared, stronger than any metal known to the Expanse.

Dragonglass.

He charged his attacker, felling him in one blow, blood flying from his would-be killer's neck as it was slashed open. He pushed the dying man aside, taking in the battle as his men raged against the rebels. Newly recruited levies wearing his colors ran as Knights pounded at them with spraying bullets, their simple armors unable to protect them. He saw the three headed dragon swaying in the wind, abandoned by flag bearers, who were dead or routing. He saw no one, no ally, Jonothon Darry and Lewyn Martell . . .

_This was folly. Everything . . . everything is lost . . . _

It was then Robert appeared before him. The man was three feet taller, black head to toe. Antlers dripped water as they framed the setting sun, and mailed hands held a mighty warhammer that was bleeding black blood. There were no words, no exchange of insults. Robert merely put his heels into the dirt and attacked, and Rhaegar responded in kind.

The first blow nearly knocked him over.

Rhaegar staggered backwards, his helm sputtering sparks as Robert advanced. He pulled the helmet off, throwing it to the ground, and then took up his blade with both hands. He attacked, and Robert pushed away the blow with the long hilt of his warhammer, and then struck at Rhaegar's leg. Rhaegar cried out in pain, limping backwards, hearing a _splash_ behind him.

A river.

Robert danced towards him, swinging his warhammer to build momentum. The first blow knocked Rhaegar's sword away from his hands. The second shattered his knee. The third caved in his chest, and sent the brilliant rubies that made up an image of his House's sigil, a three- headed dragon, scattering into the water. As he fell over Robert loomed over him, and he felt hands grasping at his bleeding chest, and saw men, Robert's and his own, splashing into the water to secure themselves the Targaryen wealth that had fled from Rhaegar's body.

Rhaegar Targaryen died.


	2. BRAN

_I hate the cold. _

Bran pulled his wolf-skin cloak around his neck as winter-kissed air passed through his dark red hair. His cheeks were ruddy, and made him look all the more a child sitting upon his pony. To his left Jon sat next to him, a boy of fifteen years with dark hair and gray eyes found on a long and solemn face. Jon's horse stirred, nickering gently as it stomped on the ground.

"Make sure you do not look away Bran, Father will know if you do."

Robb's voice was as sharp as the air, touching Bran's ears like the tips of knives. Jon was older than Robb by a few months, yet if you were to look at them side by side, you would think it was Robb who was the eldest. Robb was larger, with a stocky build and long legs. His face favored the House of his mother, with ruddy brown hair and blue eyes as bright as ice.

"I know. It's just . . . the cold . . . "

"I thought Starks were immune to this weather."

Theon Greyjoy was no Stark himself, rather a ward of Bran's father, Lord Eddard Stark of Winterfell. Regardless, he had grown with the boys, especially close with Robb. Wherever Robb was found, Theon was often swaggering behind, smiling cockily as he went about in Robb's shadow.

"He's no Stark. He's just a boy now."

Bran bristled. "I _am _a Stark! I have the names, the colors-" Robb raised a gloved hand.

"But none of the temperance. Now watch, you may learn something from how Father deals his justice."

Robb goaded his horse forward, approaching the circle that had formed around a man garbed all in black. Within the shivering belt, various men of Eddard Stark waited on their Lord Father's command. Eddard was dark, similar to Jon Snow in appearance: Gray eyes, dark hair, long face. His face was closely shaven, a mere shadow on his prematurely lined countenance, a man of thirty five years old.

"He's a member of the Night's Watch." Theon whispered as their horses came closer.

"Fleeing the Wall?" Robb questioned. Theon smirked, teeth shining.

"Most likely. He has the look of a craven."

Robb looked at Bran, and then turned his gaze upon the man they surrounded.

"It will be death, then." Robb said a matter-of-factly.

Above them Winterfell ships hovered, gravity ports distorting the look of trees as they sat on the air. Direwolves were crudely drawn on the grimly dark metal of the crafts, the sigil of House Stark.

"You shouldn't speak like that. He's only a child." Jon grumbled, and Robb turned to him. He had a way of looking at men that could make them cringe, much like their father. His eyes seemed to turn darker, like a sea underneath a setting sun, dark and red and foreboding but still somehow blue. He looked at Jon that same way, waiting. Jon returned the look, but it was weaker in him, and he faltered.

"And you are only a bastard. Do not forget your place."

Bran winced. Robb never liked Jon. They had grown up in constant competition, and Bran knew that the fact Jon looked more like their father than Robb did bothered his true-born eldest. Robb often brought up Jon's parentage, and would send Jon away, silent and angry. Except here there was nowhere to run, leaving Jon to set his eyes ahead of him and fall silent.

"Robb, Bran. Jon. Theon." Eddard spoke, dismounting from his horse. He was dressed in a rich pelted cloak, white fur flared around his neck. The cloth of the cape was dark gray, bristling with wolf hair. Underneath he wore hard-boiled leather with steel gauntlets, fur frayed around the cuffs. Heavy boots sank into grass crisped by frost, and as he moved his hair waved in a rising gust, revealing streaks of gray that lined his locks. The rest of his men followed suit, puffs of white smoke rising from their mouths as they moved.

Bran looked up as the hovercraft turned and fled, no doubt searching for more deserters. It roared in the quiet air, plumes of black smoke trailing after it as it raced across the cloudless sky.

"Father called us." Robb said, climbing from his horse. Theon and Jon mirrored his action, and Bran found himself stepping from his saddle, and onto the ground. The breaths of horse and man mixed in the air, all of them arms-length away from the crumpled up creature who bore the cloak of the Night's Watch. His head and mouth were covered with brown cloth, and one of Eddard's men stepped forward and pulled the fabric away.

Bran had to keep from gasping.

The man had no nose, no ears, and his lips were a deep purple. Dark yellow teeth rotted in his mouth, and brown eyes painted red looked at them, fear and desperation written all over his face.

"What is your name?" Eddard asked.

"Gared, My Lord."

Night's Watch.

Bran had always viewed them as heroes, defenders of the realm. But he saw a crippled- half dead man who had lost half of his face to frostbite. His uncle Benjen was a member of the Night's Watch- Is this what men looked like on The Wall?

"Are you sure he's a part of The Watch . . .?" Bran asked, eying the man.

"No one else dresses in all black. Besides, he has the look of a rapist." Theon said with a chuckle.

"Careful, Greyjoy. My uncle is a member of the Watch." Robb said coolly, and Theon fell silent, a smile still on his face as he laughed at dozens of other japes he no doubt conjured, but had better sense than speak.

"Why are you running from The Wall?" Eddard questioned. Gared shivered, his purple lips squeezing together like two shriveled worms.

"We were on a ranging . . . Wildings were found close to The Wall, sulking in the Haunted Forest. They never come so close . . . but we found bodies . . . dead bodies. Once more of us returned, they was gone, I had gone out both times, My Lord. Then . . ." Gared paused, his eyes desperate as he looked at the armed men around him.

Eddard placed his hand on the heavy hilt that was strapped to his back.

"Well?" He pursued.

"The bodies . . . they was gone, My Lord. But- They had come back. They moved cause they _walked. _The bodies rose . . . and then The Others . . ."

Robb could no longer stay silent.

"The _Others _don't exist. They're a myth."

"You haven't seen what I saw . . . white they were, with swords made from _frost _and voices that are filled with frigid cold words that no man can understand they-"

"You would have me believe that you ran from The Wall fleeing Others. You know what the price is for desertion." Eddard responded, and Bran saw Robb nod his head in approval.

"My Lord- I never flaked my duties, never touched no woman, always did as I was bid- I had no choice but to run, or else I would have been killed-"

"And now you will die here, as a deserter rather than a man of The Watch."

Eddard pulled his swordhilt from the straps on his back, and he swung it outwards. Instantly, a steel blade as light as silver sprung forth, thick and sharp.

_Ice, _Bran thought.

Two men knew what it meant. They grabbed the man, holding him still, presenting his neck to Eddard. Lord Stark raised the blade above the man's head, and hesitated.

"Do you have any last words, Gared?"

"_Winter is coming." _

The sword came down, and a spurt of bright blood sprayed from the headless body. Gared's head rolled between legs and bumped against Theon's boot, who laughed and kicked it away lightly. Eddard produced a rag and wiped the sword clean, the blade retreating back into the hilt of the weapon.

It was the first time Bran had rode out with his Father. And it was the first time he had seen him kill.

He shivered.

_Winter is coming. _


	3. Jon

Jon Snow rode ahead of his Lord Father's company, Theon and Robb and his little brother Bran riding beside him. Their horses walked over frosted grass, the hands of winter poking the land. Jon found himself remembering Gared's last words.

_Winter is coming. _

The motto of House Stark. Had Gared meant it as some final jape? Or did he have truth on his frozen lips?

_The Others . . ._

Fabled creatures of winter. Beings that belonged in children's fairy tales, along with grumpkins and snarks. But the way that man's eyes shone . . . the fear in his voice . . . there was truth to it.

"I could never join the Watch," Theon said conversationally to no one in particular. He was a Greyjoy, member of a House from the Iron Islands. He had dark hair that reached the dimples of his cheeks, with a handsome smile and eyes that danced with mirth behind dark-brown pupils. He smiled all of the time, and Jon had never seen him act serious, even among his Lord Father, Eddard. Theon was a ward, taken by Eddard Stark after Theon's father, Balon Greyjoy, lead a failed rebellion that ended with him bending the knee to King Robert Baratheon, and losing his two eldest sons.

"The vow of chastity . . . the cold . . . did you see that man's face? I'm surprised your uncle hasn't lost his nose and ears as well." Theon turned to Robb, who rode beside him silently.

"I guess it is true what they say about the Starks. Being resistant to cold."

"We were born in the cold, and we will die in it. We are men of winter, of sleet and snow. The blood of the First Men runs in our veins, uncorrupted and unspoiled. In the North, the Old Gods rule over our lives."

Jon felt eyes watching him, and he looked down to see Bran glancing up from his pony. He smiled, and his younger half-brother returned the grin, but weakly.

"What troubles you?" Jon asked. Bran hesitated, and Jon looked over at Theon and Robb. They were locked in conversation, Theon talking and laughing loudly, while Robb spoke silently, barely above a whisper. A faint smile would touch the corner of Robb's lips from time to time, but as Jon watched, his face was as barren as ice.

"It's okay Bran. You can tell me. Robb isn't listening." Jon assured. Bran sighed, clouds of white breath escaping through his mouth.

"That man . . . the one Father killed…"

"He died because he was a deserter. A man who flees The Wall is a dangerous thing. They know if they are caught they will be killed, so they are left with no inhibitions, and will do anything to escape their fate." Bran's eyes widened as he rode.

"Father gave him a merciful death." Jon quickly added.

"No, it's not that . . . I- I know he had to die . . . It's what he said . . ."

_So I'm not the only one worried. But my concerns are shared with a child. _

"He was desperate. The man was simply making up a story to preserve his own life. He-"

Jon was cut off as Theon and Robb suddenly thundered ahead of them, horses pounding the ground. Bran jolted at the noise, and his Pony reared.

"Racing!" He gasped, and Jon glared ahead at his brother and Theon.

"Bran, I feel that I should join our brother in his little contest."

Jon kicked his horse ahead, Bran cheering after him. He rode hard, cold wind whipping at his face. He raised himself slightly from his saddle, crouching as he advanced. Theon turned, grinning mischievously. Jon passed Theon soon enough, and when he looked ahead, all that he saw was Robb's strong back bent over his horse.

gaining on his brother, he roared words of encouragement to his steed. They passed over an old metal bridge, horses sliding on the cold material. Thick woods appeared then, large old trees snuggling together against the cold. It was then Robb veered to the left, galloping into a small clearing next to the edge of the bridge. Jon frowned and followed, riding slightly past Robb's horse before dismounting.

"What is it?" He called as he climbed down a small but steep hill. Robb didn't have to answer for him.

His brother stood before the body of a massive wolf, its neck impaled by the horn of a stag. He turned and looked at Jon. Jon froze, hesitating.

"Come." Robb said simply, turning his back again as he spent his attention on the dead wolf.

Jon knitted his brows and walked towards the corpse. The smell was slick and heavy, and the dead wolf's neck was crusted with frozen blood. Robb bent over and pulled the antler from the wolf's neck.

"A stag. The sigil of our King. But where is this beast, I wonder . . ." Robb trailed off as he looked around deeper in the woods. Jon took his place by the body of the wolf. It was nearly as big as Bran's pony, with long legs and a pronounced muzzle. It was then Jon heard the mewling of pups. He hovered his hands over the body of the wolf, and then placed them underneath, gently lifting the corpse over. Hidden within the furs of the wolf, five pups squirmed and yipped.

"What is it?" Theon's voice called down to Jon, who was so amazed by what he found he was at a loss for words.

"Well?" Theon pressured.

"Go and get Father. And quickly!" Jon said finally, touching one of the pups.

"Of course, Lord _Snow." _

Jon winced at the insult. _Snow _was the surname given to highborn bastards, to separate them from their trueborn siblings. Theon and Robb never failed to remind him of his parentage. Regardless, he obeyed Jon's command, as Jon heard him gallop away from the forest and over the bridge. Footsteps crunched behind him, and Robb returned.

"The stag looks like it died from bloodloss. The wolf did it in beyond the grave."

"Look," Jon said. Robb approached closer, and bent over.

"What-"

"Pups. Five of them." Jon looked up at Robb, and saw desire in his eyes. Jon himself wanted one for himself. As they stood together in silence, the sound of horses was heard above them as Eddard returned with Theon and the rest of his party.

"Five. Five pups for five trueborn Starks." Robb whispered as he turned away from Jon, leaving him kneeling before the wolf fledglings. Jon curled his hands into fists, anger brimming into him. He exhaled and stood up to his full height, putting his back to the pups and finding his father and Bran standing before Robb, Theon behind Bran, his hands on Bran's shoulders. When Bran caught sight of Jon, he ran past to him, smiling.

He was breathless, and Jon's heart forgot the anger he felt for Robb as he looked down at Bran. So young, so innocent, so happy.

"Come look," He said, bending to one knee and presenting the pups to his younger brother. Bran squealed in delight, immediately gathering one up in his arms. It brushed its muzzle against Bran's chest, and he held it all the tighter. Robb and Eddard were talking in hushed tones, both of them arguing as they walked up behind Jon.

"As you wish." Robb said, his voice tinged with cold.

Bran turned to their father.

"Can we keep them? This one likes me." He said hopefully. Jon regarded Eddard, and looking at his eyes, he knew the answer.

"No, Bran. These are _direwolves. _They are dangerous. It would be a mercy to kill them here."

Bran recoiled, huddling closer to his pup.

"Please, father! It isn't fair they didn't do anything wrong!"

Eddard frowned. "Bran, you need to-"

"If I may interrupt, Lord Stark." Jon said suddenly, standing up on both of his legs.

"The direwolf is the sigil of your House. There are five pups . . . one for each of your children. This is a message from the Old Gods." Compassion, so rarely seen reflected in Eddard, shone through his eyes.

"You desire no wolf for yourself, Jon?" He said softly.

"No . . . I- I am no Stark, my Lord."

Eddard nodded, and Bran jumped with happiness.

"Does this mean we can keep them?" He asked excitedly.

"Yes. But you will be responsible for them. You will train them, feed them, and wash them. Do not make me regret granting you this." Eddard warned. Bran smiled brilliantly and looked at Jon, his eyes filled with thanks. Jon smiled down at him.

"Theon, help me retrieve the rest of the pups." Robb said, and the two of them gathered the small wolves. They climbed up the hill, and they found the rest of their party waiting for them. Questioning looks came from the men, and Eddard sighed.

"Direwolves."

One of his men scoffed. "They haven't been seen on this side of The Wall for hundreds of years!"

It was Robb who answered him, his eyes cold, his face stern.

"Now there are five." He said, and that was the end of the discussion. As they were preparing to finish their ride to Winterfell, Jon heard a rustling in the brush near the bridge. Dismounting again, he went towards the sound, moving thorny thistles and dull green leaves away.

"What is it, Jon?" Lord Eddard called. Jon rose, holding a sixth pup, as white as the snow that began to fall around them.

"This one is mine." Jon said, smiling. Robb glared from his horse, and that made Jon smile all the wider.

_I am a Stark just like you, Robb. _


	4. DAENERYS

Daenerys cringed as Viserys looked at her with his mauve eyes. His hair was worn straight, silver and blonde, brilliant as the sun. A braid was wrapped around his temples like a crown of locks, and he was dressed richly- a bold long-sleeved tunic with flared cuffs, complete with white breeches and knee-high black boots. A sword hung from a jeweled belt, and his fine long fingers, white and thin, thrummed the circular pommel of his weapon.

"She's too small. I hear the Dothraki are voracious when it comes to their women- Are you sure she will suffice?"

Daenerys and Viserys both shifted their attentions to Illyrio Motapis. He was morbidly obese, and flew around on a low-gravity pod, his fat spilling out over the sides. Chubby fingers were choked by rings, and his neck consisted of varying sizes of rolls. Illyrio's eyes swam in his fatty face, sagging and half lidded. He had a long forked beard, as bright and yellow as his teeth.

"Your sister is very beautiful. I am sure that once _Khal Drogo _sees her, he will readily accept our terms, and grant you your army. But I must leave you, for now. Preparing for a Dothraki _Khalasar _is something that needs my immediate attention." Illyrio bowed his head- or as well as he could with the piles of fat underneath his chin- and weaved about on his craft, leaving the room, two slaves retreating with him. Daenerys stepped backwards as Viserys focused on her again. He was handsome, pouted lips and high cheekbones graced his face. His eyes were beautiful but cruel. His pupils seemed to change their shade depending on his mood, and now they were dark, shadowy and grim.

"You better not fail me, sister." Viserys said, walking towards her, his hand on his swordhilt. Outside, the low hum of hovercrafts were heard, merchant ships lying close to the ground, with larger trade barges floating high in the yellow sky, thousands of single pilot crafts buzzing between the sandy-colored airships, ferrying merchants and cargo.

"I . . . I do not want to marry him. Khal Drogo." Daenerys whispered, looking away from Viserys as his eyes dug at her, inches away from her face. He smiled then, and closed her around him, his wiry arms hugging her close. She relaxed then, resting her head on his small chest. She was but thirteen, and as far as she had knew, she was supposed to marry _Viserys, _not this Khal Drogo. He had told her as much before, telling her that to keep the Targaryen bloodline pure, their ancestors wed sister to brother, uncle to niece.

"Daenerys. You _will _marry him. I need an army to retake the Iron Throne. To go back home. Isn't that what you want?"

Westeros. The planet that they had fled when Daenery's was a newborn. Viserys had told her in the past that House Targaryen, the valaryian conquerors who sprung from their adopted moon of Dragonstone invaded Westeros nearly three hundred years ago, bearing a long line of rulers that ended with the two of them, the only surviving Targaryens after the rebellion.

"I would let Khal Drogo, his horses, and all of the men of his Khalasar _fuck _you if it meant gaining my crown. Is that understood?" Viserys lifted her chin, softly with his two hands. He kissed her forehead delicately, and she shuddered. He had always been like that- cruel yet kind, charming yet dangerous. Viserys backed away from here then, smiling.

"Illyrio got you a new dress." He said conversationally as he rubbed the white fabric of Daenery's clothing between his fingers.

"He said that I must look the princess that would tempt even a hardened _Khal." _

"A dress won't seduce a savage like him. Take it off." Viserys ordered, and Daenerys inhaled sharply.

She knew this was coming. Daenerys slipped out of the dress, slouching her slender shoulders, letting it fall to the stone floor. She was naked underneath, and she began to raise her hands over herself as Viserys eyed her, his face a mask towards his true emotions.

"Keep your hands down." He said harshly. She complied, looking away from him, wishing she was somewhere else. Viserys' eyes lingered on her for a moment longer, and then he turned away, leaving her to her room and servants. She bent down and raised her dress back over her body, shivering despite the heat of Pentos, a city found on the planet of Essos.

Essos.

It was her people's homeworld, but the land that they had once ruled was shrouded in darkness and flame. It was her House, House Targaryen, that escaped the Doom, fleeing to Dragonstone until they invaded the planet Westeros. Pentos, and the surrounding areas unscathed by the destruction that burned the Valaryian Empire. Daenerys almost smiled. It was strange that she would find herself here, on the planet that nearly destroyed her kind.

The Targaryens had survived the Doom, and that knowledge filled her with strength. She would survive, the capacity to was within her blood. She looked out of her window, watching as brown ships painted with white scribbles flew about the higher stories of Illyrio's abode. Wind blew into her room, causing her silver hair to run behind her, flying brilliantly as the sun shone between the sharp contours of a descending barge.

"I am the blood of Dragons." Daenerys said to herself, curling her small fists. Viserys had told her the motto of their House, a motto that Daenerys found herself saying with conviction for the first time.

"_Fire and Blood." _


	5. ROBB

Robb walked through Winterfell. Snow flurries that had attacked them upon arriving had dwindled, and now only a few s flakes fell from the hazy sky. Men greeted him, _his _men, their hello's and M'lords erupting as white breath when they opened their mouths. He either ignored them or nodded softly, touching shoulders so those in his way would disperse. They often turned with scowls, ready to insult and fight, but once their eyes met his, their anger melted away, replaced by respect and fear.

_I am the blood of the North. _Robb followed the sound of barking dogs until it led him to Winterfell's kennels. It was a circular building, large and smooth. A blinking antenna stood vigil on the crest of the construction, and around the grounds of the kennel cart-machines rolled, carrying feed and taking waste to the various depositories. Robb hated the kennels.

First Men had a natural distrust for technology. This was clearly seen in Winterfell: it had the bare minimum of mechanical monstrosities, most of them regulated solely for military purposes. In other areas of Winterfell, the old way of the North still ruled, before the Andals invaded with their machines and burning projectiles. Food was still prepared by stove and fire, and Eddard often rode out astride a horse, as opposed to a warmachine or any other low-flying craft. The metal of the castle was crafted to appear similar to square-cut stone, to give the impression that Winterfell had been unchanged since Brandon The Builder rose it over eight thousand years ago. But Robb knew within the faux-stone, heating agents coursed, keeping the inside of the Castle and the surrounding buildings warm. In the summers, automated machines silently dispersed bursts of cool air, so that the Starks and their men were never out of comfort.

Robb hated all of it, and if it were up to him, he would remove all traces of the technology- They were Andal conventions, not fit for men of the North. However, he knew doing so would doom him and his House to the mercy of the Andals who dwelt in the south, and even in the north, enemies were found. The North is also home to the Boltons, who have been ancestral enemies to the Starks. The Boltons heeded Stark leadership . . . but it was a tenuous ruling at best. Eddard had told him all of these things, preparing Robb for when his day would come to rule Winterfell, as Warden of The North.

Robb walked to the door of the kennel, and the metallic door _hissed _as it vanished into the ground. Dogs barked ferociously behind glass pens, and Robb found Farland standing among his younger siblings, each one holding their direwolves.

"Oh, hush up you cunts," Farland swore, clapping his hands together. The barks suddenly vanished as each individual pen was muted. The Kennel Master sighed and scratched his head.

"They don't like wolves." He muttered as Robb approached. Sansa smiled when she caught sight of Robb.

"Brother!" She squealed, her pup protesting as she pulled him tighter. Robb's eyes softened when he caught sight of her. She looked like him, beautiful with her white skin and red hair, Tully features they inherited from their mother.

"Don't do that, you _stupid. _You're hurting him." Arya criticized, her own wolf laying by her folded legs as she sat. Robb's mouth turned slightly. Arya was his trueborn sister . . . but her temperament and coloring were similar to Jon. The _bastard _Jon. Sansa scrunched her nose.

"It's a _girl, _Arya. Right, Farlen?" Sansa turned to him, and the man nodded.

"Yeah, that one's a girl. So is yours, Arya. Bran and Rickon have boys."

Robb looked around the room, a bleach white dwelling with glass pens everywhere, some filled, some empty.

"And mine?" He asked. Farland smiled.

"Yours is a boy too. A good litter, if you ask me. Though, your Father told me of six pups . . ."

It was much like Jon to ignore their father and go off on his own with his direwolf. Robb shrugged, he was glad he didn't have to tolerate him.

"It is said that bastards are ill-natured by blood. I am not surprised he isn't here."

Sansa bowed her head in agreement. "He was grinning when he arrived earlier . . . some crude humor born from jealousy, no doubt. Speaking of grins, where is Theon?"

"I am not Theon's keeper." Robb said coolly, and Sansa fell silent. Rickon giggled as his pup nibbled at his chubby fingers, and Bran looked forlorn as he pet his own.

"I wish Jon was here. I wanted to see his wolf." Bran muttered sadly.

"Why? It is an outcast, just like him. I do not understand why you look up to the bastard so much."

"He reminds me of father." Bran said softly with a smile, but once the words left his lips Robb's mood soured. His lips thinned, and he could feel his hands curl into fists.

Farland coughed.

"Your pup is here, My Lord." Farland walked towards one of the pens, pressing a button as a hiss of air escaped the contained locker. He lifted inside, and pulled out Robb's direwolf. It had smoke-colored fur, and its eyes were closed in sleep. It was limp in Farland's hands as the Kennel Master carefully handed it to Robb. Robb took it gently, a shadow of a smile growing on his face. He could feel the small wolf's heartbeat, so faint, yet strong for something so small.

"Shaggydog!" Rickon cried suddenly as he roughly handled his pup, which was as black as their father's hair.

"His name is Shaggydog!" He repeated, giggling. Sansa made a face.

"He can't be a _dog, _he's a wolf. Why not _Shaggywolf?" _she suggested. Rickon shook his head violently.

"SHAGGGYDOG! SHAGGYDOG! SHAGGYDOG!" he screamed, until Sansa covered her ears.

"fine, fine, Shaggydog."

Bran beamed in agreement.

"I will name mine _Lady. _She is elegant, just like her Master." Sansa's pup yipped again, and Arya laughed.

"You can't name her Lady because she's a _wolf, _remember?" She teased. Sansa smiled and shut her eyes.

"Don't listen to her Lady, you're perfect." Arya stood up, puffing up her chest and raising a skinny arm above her small body.

"Mine will be called _Nymeria _after the warrior queen of Dorne!" She bellowed.

Farland smiled. "a good name. And you, Bran?"

Bran pet his pup softly. It looked up at him, shivering and whimpering.

"I . . . I don't know yet."

"How could you not know? We all named ours, even Rickon!" Arya pestered.

"Let him have time to think." Robb said quietly, and Arya relented. He raised his pup before his eyes, and it woke, stirring in his grip, and then relaxing once it caught sight of him. Robb took in the wolf's coloring, the brightness of its yellow eyes.

"This one will be called _Grey Wind." _


	6. CATELYNN

He was always here after he killed. Catelynn saw her husband across the white glass, placing her hand on the cool material. Eddard sat underneath a large weirwood tree, the tree's red eyes seemingly looking down on him with a face of anguish. The godswood was a separate piece of land within Winterfell, untouched for thousands of years. Catelynn moved her hand away from the glass, placing her hands before her thighs. The hood around her face was smooth silk, massaging her white cheeks. The trees of the Godswood huddled close together, stubborn things that had lived longer than even the greatest Kings. They formed a thick canopy overhead, red-green leaves pushing against the thin barrier that separated the godswood from the rest of the world. Catelynn gathered her voice, and applied pressure to the glass. It shuddered, turning watery and obscuring Eddard's features as he looked up at the movement. Catelynn walked through, the smell of ancient tree and decaying leaves hitting her. She inhaled it willingly, the scent reminding her of the man that was wed to her. The Godswood was a place where people who kept to the Old Gods may do worship. She herself was not born under the Old Gods, but The Old Gods were of the North, and as she was wedded to a Stark she was of the North as well, in marriage if not by blood. Eddard kept his gray eyes on Catelynn, his face unmoving. Catelynn hesitated, unsure if she should pressure him with this grim news.

_No. He has to know. _

"Catelynn." Eddard finally said, giving her a weary smile. That smile filled her with confidence, filled her with reassurance. Eddard loved her, though at times he was still a child, unable to truly express his feelings. He was smaller and less robust that his brother, Brandon, who was her first arranged mate before he died shortly before Robert's Rebellion.

"Eddard," She said, her face warming. She approached him, and he watched her all the while, until she sat down next to him on the moist earth. Eddard had lay his cloak across the ground, and the soft fabric delicately kissed her legs as she folded them underneath herself, strands of red hair falling across her face and down the front of her long neck. She was respectfully covered, the weight of her heavy breasts supported by a blouse that covered her from the base of her neck and down to her ankles. He returned his attention to his sword, shining the icy-colored blade. She knew his ears were hers, however, and she hesitated again. The words were in her throat, but she did not know how to say it. Silence lingered between them, reminding Catelynn of the first years when they were married, long ago, when they were little more than children.

"Another deserter today." Eddard said as his sword clicked, the blade runningback into the hilt, vanishing from view.

"They've been leaving in greater numbers recently." Catelynn noted, the real reason of her visit still looming in her mind.

"Not just desertions. More and more are being lost on rangings. The Wildlings seem more emboldened now, organized by some fool that calls himself King-Beyond-The-Wall." Eddard smiled again, Catelynn considering herself lucky now, to be able to see him display anything other than cold respect twice this day.

"A foolish name." He said, and this time it was Catelynn who grinned.

"A lofty one for a King of ice." She offered, and Eddard _laughed. _It was quiet, barely above a whisper, but it was a laugh.

_He's trying. He loves me so much and he's trying. Why do I have to be the one to tell him this? _

"I may have to call the banners and lead men across The Wall to deal with this self-proclaimed King. The Night's Watch is undermanned and they have little equipment. Benjen told me of their status the last time he was here. Rifles are scarce, saved only for Rangers. Thermal suits dwindle, and the ones that work only do so for half the time of the newer models. They need more technology, and they need more men."

Catelynn remembered when the Night's Watch was the pride of the Seven Kingdoms. Now what were they? A forgotten shadow, fighting an enemy that no one still believed in. She felt a tightness around her throat as she was reminded of House Stark's motto.

_Winter is coming. _

"The man I killed claimed he was running from the Others."

Catelynn's eyes widened, the words she just thought of repeating in her mind, a cold whisper, harsh and unforgiving as the frigid winters that gripped the land for years upon end.

"I . . . I don't know what to think. His eyes- They were filled with fear. A men that has seen death ride by, grinning as it swung its sickle over the heads of his comrades. There was nothing else to him. I think he wanted to die." Eddard paused, looking at her with those wolf's eyes.

"If that isn't a man who had seen an Other, then what _did _he see?" Eddard asked. Catelynn faltered, looking away from him, and to the bubbling pool that hid over his shoulders. Lilies floated on the surface, and a small mist rose as automated pumps continually drained liquid into the artificial lake.

"There are things in this world that we still do not understand." Catelynn smiled at that, continuing. "For all of our technology, our radars and our ships and our weapons, we still cannot conquer the same darkness that threatened the First Men. The realm beyond the Wall will always be a mystery."

Eddard nodded, agreeing. He felt silent again, and Catelynn knew this was the time. It was now, or never.

"Jon Arryn is dead." She said with a sort of finality, and grief hit Eddard's eyes so hard that she buckled in pain for him. Eddard leveled his gaze ahead, looking at the shifting barrier that contained the Godswood.

"How did you come to know this?" He inquired.

"By Robert's own hand. Jon was afflicted, and after his death, Lysa and her son ran to the Eyrie. My sister was always foolish . . . she should have gone to Riverrun. She shouldn't be by herself." Eddard frowned.

"Jon . . ."

Catelynn understood. Jon Arryn had fostered both him and Robert Baratheon, and when Aerys II Targaryen killed both Eddard's father and brother, he came for Eddard's head as well. Instead of deliver the boy, Jon Arryn flew from his floating fortress and waged war against the crown. Jon was Eddard's father, and Robert was his brother. Now Jon lie dead and Robert sat on the Iron Throne.

"Robert is coming." She said, and some joy returned to Eddard's face.

"Robert? I haven't seen him in ages . . . we must prepare! Get the casks ready, you know how he loves drink. And perhaps have the cooks prepare food the Andal way, have them leave the stoves and fires for now. Robert . . ." Eddard's face was warm, and Catelynn was happy for him. Still, she felt a sense of unease.

"His wife will accompany him as well. Along with their guards and retainers."

"Lannisters." Eddard spat. House Lannister had been allied with Aerys II Targaryen until it was clear that Robert would win the war. At the last moment they betrayed Aerys, led by Tywin Lannister, and butchered Prince Rhaegar's children and wife, presenting them to Robert in red cloaks. Eddard and he had fought over the incident, and Eddard left with a bad taste for both Baratheon and Lannister. Catelynn was glad that he had forgiven Robert, but the Lannister addition no doubt troubled him.

"Regardless, we must prepare. Old wounds live in the past, and a real man forgives slights and insults given to him."

Catelynn had heard Eddard say such things so many times that she knew what he would say next.

"A man of the North forgives sins, but a man of the North never forgets." They said together. Eddard looked at her with shock, and Catelynn giggled as she had when she was a young girl.

"Everything will be all right. We will endure the Lannisters and then they will be gone before you know it." He assured, holding her close. Catelynn remained silent, pressing her head against his chest and closing her eyes, wishing life wasn't as complex as it was. Somehow, she knew that her Lord Husband was dreadfully wrong.


	7. DAENERYS II

According to legend, the Dothraki were lords of horse and arrow. Daenerys could see now that neither was true. In the hot sun of Pentos, dust swirled in the air as Khal Drogo's khalasar swept into the city. She had expected a tribe of savages, thick legs resting on wild horses while fingers twiddled at strung bows. But what she saw was vastly different. The Dothraki rode old machines that hovered over the ground, kicking up brown gusts due to the cushion of air that kept them above the sands. They had crafts of various makes and designs, not one universal standard, which led Daenerys to assume that the Dothraki did not build their own vehicles- rather they stole what they could, from those weaker than they. The Dothraki themselves were a queer folk- Bandaged heads swiveled as eyes hidden by thick black goggles took in their surroundings. Every part of their body was covered, and some of them had cooling units strapped to their backs. Dany saw that some of the Dothraki allowed their hair to be seen by the sun, brown and blonde, dyed by the unforgiving rays that battered this portion of Essos.

They were armed- Dany saw that well enough. Rifles were swathed in cloth, the flimsy fabric holding together weapons that seemed older than herself. Some Dothraki still armed themselves with bows- But they were of metal and electricity, rather than wood and string. Some carried swords that were lined with chain links, and _buzzed _when activated, the sharp portions speeding back and forth on the curved track that followed the contours of the blade. She watched all of this with eyes made of fear and interest, and as she saw the Dothraki funnel into Pentos, she could only ask herself one thing.

_Where is this Khal Drogo? _

Viserys vocalized her thought. He was scowling, his purple eyes hazy with anger. He wore his hair back in a ponytail, revealing his strong face, pale skin untouched by the sun that covered high cheekbones and a strong jaw.

"Is he not here?" Visery asked, his voice tinged with annoyance. Daenerys cringed. She was dressed beautifully, in yet another dress that Illyrio had bought her. It was the color of sand, and a leather belt hugged her waist, making the dress tight above and below. Shells decorated her slim wrists, and flowers had been weaved into her long silver locks. Illyrio himself floated with them, his grossly formed body wriggling in a pod that could barely contain his girth.

"Patience, my prince. He will be here." Illyrio said with confidence. But Daenerys noticed how he subtly directed his merchant army- men in bronze armor that covered every inch of skin, holding a rifle that doubled as a sword.

_Unsullied. _

"They are _savages!_ You had told me of a great army, one that would have all of Westeros quaking in fear."

Illyrio smiled, the fat of his face folding as it was displaced by the action. "Every one of these _Dothraki _are worth more than ten of your westerosi knights. What they lack in armor and weaponry they make up in skill, speed, and brutality. Any army found on that backwater planet would pale in comparison to even twenty thousand Dothraki screamers."

The Dothraki muttered amongst themselves in a strange tongue, one that Dany had never heard before. Their voices were distorted by the bandages they wore over their mouths, and some even had mechanical apparatuses covering their faces, which was no doubt some type of cooling agent. Regardless, they too had strange voices- their words garbled by electronic interference. Merchant ships loomed high above in the air, and Daenerys had noticed with some discomfort that the large cannons attached to the stern of the crafts were aiming _down _at them. Smaller single-pilot fighters made frequent fly-bys, zipping across the sky in high-pitched tones.

"Ah, there he is." Illyrio said with some relief. Daenerys looked within the crowd of Dothraki, searching for her future husband. Viserys laid a hand on her, and she shuddered away from him. He held her tighter, grabbing her chin and forcing the Dothraki Lord into her field of vision.

"The leader of my army. And your husband."

Khal Drogo.

He was large, easily dwarfing the other Dothraki that shied away from him. Unlike his followers, he rode a horse, black as night yet as bright as the moon. On his shoulder, a fearsome mask dangled, a red-and-black vizor that looked like it was ripped from the face of a demon. Bulls horns curved from the mouth of the mask, long and deadly. His body was covered with mismatched armor, and whatever was not armored was bound by dusty bandages. His face was dark, the color of the sand itself, with brown eyes that spoke of no compassion. Hair trailed down from his head and all the way across his shoulders and down to nearly the middle of his stomach, ringing with bells. Illyrio's courtyard was now filled with Dothraki, Khal Drogo at the head of the horde. He carried no weapons, but men wearing similar masks rode beside him on warmachines, swords and pistols and spears in their hands, while some carried their weapons on their back, while others strapped them to their legs.

"Bloodriders," Illyrio whispered, and even Viserys seemed impressed.

"Fearsome." He said contently, and when Daenerys looked at him she was surprised to see how wide his eyes were. Khal Drogo led his horse to the front of the massing group, before the beige steps that led to the entrance of Illyrio's mansion, where Viserys, Daenerys, and Illyrio himself waited. Illyrio bobbed forward, and as he did two Unsullied took up flank with him. His pod beeped as it hovered towards Khal Drogo, and the man looked at him with such disdain Daenerys felt that the _Khal _would kill Illyrio where he floated.

They exchanged words in the guttural tongue of the Dothraki. They spoke for some time, and Daenerys fidgeted, causing the shells on her wrists to slightly sound as they touched each other.

"Be still." Viserys snapped, and she complied, her heart thumping behind her small chest.

Finally, Illyrio moved aside, and Khal Drogo gazed at Daenerys from atop his horse. The wind picked up, causing his bells to ring as black hair flew before his thin nose, darkened by the sun. She didn't smile, she didn't bow. Frozen with fear, all she could do was return the look, and finally Khal Drogo reared his horse, and rode from Illyrio's home. The horde followed, hooting as their machines vomited black smoke , racing and swearing and revving. Finally, as the last Dothraki warmachine sputtered from view, Viserys grabbed Daenery's neck.

"You failed." He snarled, his handsome face red with anger. He was about to strike her as Ilyrio laughed deeply as he returned to them.

"No. Khal Drogo approved of her. They will be married shortly." He informed. Viserys quickly released his grip on Daenerys .

"Then we will make our way to Westeros." He said, beaming. "Then I can retake my throne."

Illyrio smiled, but his shifting eyes betrayed his jovial attitude.

"Of course my prince. All that was once yours will be yours again."

Viserys grabbed hold of Daenery's hand, holding it tightly as the ships that loomed above them slowly dispersed.

"Fire and Blood, Sister." He said softly, and she nodded, the only sound she heard clearly was the drum of her own heart. Daenerys shook, and when Viserys looked at her quizzically, she smiled. He took this properly, and pulled her closer.

_Fire and blood. _


	8. JON II

Jon Snow always liked to be away from his siblings and Catelynn. He was preparing to retreat to the training grounds just as soon as he had arrived. Jon remembered the last words his father had spoken to him as he dismounted moments earlier.

"Meet with Farland with your siblings. He'll tell you how to take care of the pups." Eddard had instructed, making his way to the Godswood. Jon had complied, but only at face value. He kept his distance from the kennels, and made his way to the square.

He had no place here. His direwolf whimpered, and Jon hugged the pup closer to his chest. It had opened its eyes, and the wolf looked at him from two ruby pools shining from a sea of white. Winterfell men busily moved about him, none of them giving him the littlest bit of attention. Such was the lot of a bastard. Eddard was an honorable and kind man, raising Jon as a son as well as he could without offsetting his trueborn children. Yet how could an honorable man father a son with a woman he was not wed to? Jon made his way to the training yard. Fighting was the one thing he did well. It was the one thing they couldn't take from him. Catelynn, the sneering red bitch, had tried to bar him from the training yard a few years past, after Robb had challenged him to a fight and lost. Eddard and she had fought over it, screaming at Jon's father as Robb sobbed, his face bruised. Eddard listened silently, Jon looking on sullenly, his wooden sword on the ground. After Catelynn had finished, Lord Stark simply stared at her with those haunting gray eyes. She stood there, face tightened, until finally she gathered up a whimpering Robb and hurriedly left the yard.

"The training grounds will always be available to you." Eddard had told Jon then, much younger than he was now. Jon seemed to unintentionally replay that day every time he drew near the area, remembering with fondness one of the few times Eddard had shielded him from Catelynn's wroth. In other matters, he failed to come to Jon's defense. Jon was forced to sit away from the family in the meadhall where they took their meals, glaring up from his dinner often as the smells of roasts and honeyed breads and even some Andal deserts wafted towards him. It was food fit for nobles, Lords and Ladies, not bastards.

The training square was a plain sector within Winterfell's walls. On steel ground, it was thermally heated so that ice did not develop on the metallic surface. Dummy soldiers waited to be activated, armed with dull swords and shields. They could be programmed to varying levels of difficulty, and Jon had been surprised to see Rodrik, their master at arms, training with them, slowly being pushed back and bested by three of the machines while set on the highest difficulty. Aside from the ports for the robots, there was not much else to the grounds. A small mess hall was opposite to it, where exhausted men could refresh themselves as the next group of trainees moved in. Outside, on the mess hall's walls, weapons waited.

Bows, axes, swords, even greatswords hung, the blades of the axes and swords waiting in hilts, while the electric cords of the bows buzzed at both tips of the weapon, unconnected. Rifles were found as well, shining and brilliant. Andal weapons they were, but they had their uses, and it was easier to train a man to be skilled with a rifle than it was to be skilled with a sword.

When it came to war, men quickly forgot tradition and stigma if it meant preserving their way of life. Even men of the North. But as Jon grew closer to the training ground, he saw a young man fire bolt after bolt from his electrobow, the charged strands of energy powering his bolts stronger than any string as they felled advancing dummy robots.

Theon.

He wore a hood, but his body moved with an unmistakable swagger, a cocksureness to it that only he possessed. Jon watched, amazed, as he landed perfect shots on the machines, seeing through their attempts to flank him, and using feints to lower their guard. Finally, the last machine staggered as a bolt exited through its chest, the plastic skin tearing almost comically. The actual machines were very thin, but they were covered with cheap material, plastic and foam and stuffing- So their appearance was buffed. A man could hack at one of the dummies for hours and still not damage the vital functioning, and it took only a few hours to repair the machine's simple exoskeleton.

By this time Jon stood at the corner of the training ground, behind Theon. He could feel the soles of his feet begin to warm as Theon deactivated his bow, the weapon folding neatly into his palm.

"Lord Snow." He said, before turning.

Jon flushed.

"How did you know?" He asked. Theon _did _turn, this time. He was a handsome youth, much more so than Jon, with dark brown hair and hawk's eyes. He bore a sculpted face: a aquiline nose, and otherwise sharp features graced his appearance. He laughed loudly, _much _too loud for Jon's taste.

"Lord Eddard would have spoken to me before he stepped on the flat. Robb would have stayed his distance until I finished, and Bran . . . he would have called out to me while he was still by the gates. You approached like Eddard but watched like Robb, with none of the delicacy of either."

Before Jon could respond, Theon gave him a quizzical look.

"Aren't you supposed to be meeting with Farlen?" He inquired.

Jon looked about, and then opened his cloak just enough for his direwolf to poke his small snout between the heavy fabric.

"Ah. Robb was very angry that you managed to acquire a Direwolf." Theon said casually, and Jon was not surprised.

"He is always angry when it comes to me." Jon said. Theon smiled softly at that, turning away from Jon and pulling his hood tighter to his face.

"MATCH AI: FOUR OPPONENTS. LEVEL 7." Theon bellowed, and the ground _chimed _as a fresh batch of dummy soldiers rose from their ports. Jon realized suddenly that the vanquished soldiers had vanished while his attention was on Theon.

"Catelynn had said that it should be the first one killed, if any danger were to rise from the Direwolves being here. Even if it was innocent. To teach them responsibility, she had said. I don't know the exact wording, sadly. I'm often too busy looking at her breasts to care." Theon grunted as he loosed the bolts, missing one, and the second finding itself lodged in one of the legs of his attackers.

"_Kill?" _Jon rasped. He ignored the slight against Catelynn. He bore no respect for her, and he would not defend her honor before Theon. Besides, he secretly agreed. Often when he was younger, Catelynn would lean over to scold him, and before he even knew what they were, his big gray eyes often found themselves down between the small space of her ruddy teats, each one as large as a ripe melon.

"Yes. You _do _know the word, don't you? I didn't take you for a fool." Theon japed, all of his enemies down now. The yard was silent then, the two boys standing still. Finally, Theon again deactivated his weapon.

"If I were you, however, I would leave this place. And soon. You might end up like how Catelynn wants your wolf." Jon stared at him dumbly as Theon faced him.

"_Dead._" He said softly. Snow had begun to fall then, light flakes that had lessened since their ride outside Winterfell.

"You're jokes get crueler by the day." Jon grimaced, and Theon bore the opposite look on his face. However, his eyes were still and serious. It was that emotion in Theon's eyes that made Jon stay.

"Think about it. She never loved you. She _tolerated _you. And as you've grown . . . well, you look more like a Stark than any of your siblings. Well, save for Arya, but she's a girl so people, even Catelynn seem to forget that." Theon informed.

"I don't see what this has to do with my death." Jon whispered coldly.

"You're a threat. Your existence is a constant reminder of Eddard's lapse of loyalty . . . but it is more than that. You are a bastard, an agent of disorder. It would be easy for you, when you turn into true adulthood, to gather support after Eddard dies. You're his spitting image, Jon. Robb isn't. She wants you dead because _you are the son she couldn't give him." _

Jon did run then, holding his direwolf close to his chest. He heard Theon guffaw, but he did not turn around to see it. He simply ran ahead, into Winterfell's closed areas, crashing into men on business and narrowly evading a servant with a hot tray of food. He ran into the royal suites, passing through the massive hallways, each wall cobbled with false stone. Catelynn rushed down the hallway at the same moment, and Jon nearly crashed into her. He saw her glare, and sidestepped her. He passed the last rooms, until finally he came into his own abode. He slammed his door behind him, sliding down the smooth wood until his buttocks touched the cool floor beneath.

Jon sobbed into the soft fur of his direwolf.


	9. ARYA

Arya sat in her room. It was large, smaller than Sansa's massive block but much bigger than the room Jon was given. It had the niceties a girl her age would need: a glass mirror, a furnace with digital wood burning inside of it, and a dresser for clothes, complete with a walk-in closet. She sat on her bed, watching as her wolf Nymeria nibbled on one of her shoes.

Boredom.

Winterfell was preparing for the king's visit, and as such it seemed no one had time for her, even Mother. She was scurrying about the castle, flanked by aids and assistants who got jittery when she asked things like "Why is this still here?" and, "This looks terrible, do it again better." Everyone was cleaning and fussing and yelling and getting stressed out. Arya didn't see what the big deal was. She sighed and slid off of her bed and onto the floor, Nymeria padding up to her. When she sat, her pup was nearly eye-level with her. Nymeria licked Arya with a wet tongue as Arya laughed and hugged her, wrapping her thin arms around the growing wolf's neck. Through Arya's one window, she heard the sound of hovercrafts pulling against the air, the shouts and orders that floated between the ground and the craft weaving into her room. She got up to her feet and walked to the window, Nymeria in tow. Below, Winterfell's court was in disarray- People scurried about the ground floor, little ants to Arya's eyes. She raised her hand and followed the men, squishing them between her fingers. She giggled, and turned to face her mirror.

She wore the same clothing as she did the day before, and her hair was unruly. She had thick dark brown hair, almost as black as Jon's and fathers. She studied her face, comparing herself to them now as she always did. When she was younger, she had thought _she _was a bastard. To her, 'Bastard' meant having black hair and grey eyes. She had asked her mother if she was like Jon, and Catelynn had laughed, reassuring her that she was not a bastard at all. But still, Arya saw Jon in her face. The same solemn eyes, the same long face, the same ears . . . She didn't mind though. Sansa looked too much like a fiery red flame, sharing her mother's square face and red hair. Robb looked like her, and Bran looked like a young Robb. Baby Rickon _had _dark hair when he was born, but now it was turning to a ruddy red, his eyes bright blue like Catelynn. Nymeria brushed against her leg, and when Arya looked down on her, the wolf turned to the door forlornly.

"You want to go outside?" Arya asked, leaning over to pet Nymeria. She was eleven, two years older than Bran and three years younger than Sansa. Robb was the oldest, but only by a few months. Rickon was only four, and Jon was around the same age as Robb, but so much smaller that you would think he was much, much younger. But, he was a bastard, so Arya mused it didn't really matter. Bastards matured faster than trueborn children, Old Nan had told them.  
_"Jon will be bigger than you all,"_

She had said in that tittering way of speaking she had, her voice wracked by years and years of unending life. Arya had no idea how _old _Old Nan was, but her father Eddard had told her that she had been here for many years. Almost as old as the castle, he had joked. Arya made for her door, opening it and instantly being hit by a rush of activity. Everywhere servants tried hanging tapestries, scented candles, and sigils of lions and stags. Arya liked the stag. It was black on a yellow field, standing tall and vigilant. It was powerful, and it made her feel safe. The lion however . . .

It unnerved her. It was too _yellow, _the image of the lion as bright as the morning sun. It stood on hind legs, with paws raised in attack. The mouth of the lion was open, revealing bloody teeth, as a tail curled around the thickness of the lion's legs. It looked scary, and Arya was ashamed to admit that she shook when she looked at it. Arya stood dumbly at the foot of her room, watching as everyone moved about her. More than once, people nearly bumped into her, and some did, giving pained apologies as they scurried by. Men with data charted argued with men without them, pointing to holographic diagrams that shifted with each stroke of their fingers. Machines moved, too.

Little ones, large ones, and some of the even gargantuan domestic construction models, assisting people as they hung flags from the high ceilings of the castle while tiny robots, no more than moving boxes, sent and received messages and ferried small tools to builders. Human-sized skeletal machinations watched with red eyes, recording everything silently. Those ones unnerved her. They were scary too- With their skulls and maroon eyes, they looked more like ghosts than robots.

"Arya, what are you doing?" She heard Jon's voice as she turned her head, saw him walking up to her, his long hair brushing against his cheeks. He _was _little. Arya was nearly up to his chest, and she was younger than he.

"Nothing I guess. Everything is going on but I'm not involved. Everyone seems busy. What are you doing?" She asked him. Jon shrugged. He was wearing a gray tunic with black trousers. Brown boots hugged his feet, reaching halfway up to his knees. In his hands, his direwolf, as white as snow, peered at her with red eyes.

"Have you named him yet?" She asked casually. Jon suddenly looked stricken, his face frozen in strange fear. It was then that Arya noticed he had been crying. Before she could ask him what was wrong, he returned to his normal level of composure.

"Ghost. It's a fitting name, I think." Jon smiled at Arya, and she returned it back to him, mirroring the expression on her face.

"And yours?"

"Nymeria!"

Jon grinned. "The warrior Queen of Dorne? You would name her something like that." Jon glanced down at the small pup that huddled close to Arya's leg.

"I was going to go to the Godswood, if you wanted to come along." He invited, and she nodded eagerly.

"Anything is better than being here." She said, and Jon agreed silently, bobbing his head forward as he took the lead. As they walked, people ignored Jon, not glancing at him or speaking. Some even gave him dirty looks. But they all made sure that they spoke to Arya, granting her with M'lady and _princess. _If Jon noticed, he seemed not to care, walking easily as they made their way from the upper walkway of Winterfell's massive halls. Maneuvering between heavy traffic down a fleet of stone stairs found them at the base level of Winterfell. In the main hall, Arya heard the voice of her mother, Lady Catelynn Stark, yelling as two men were moving a large table.

"No you fools! It has to be _under _the light." She said, shaking her head. She was dressed in a black gown, her body modestly covered from neck to foot, despite this, her figure could still easily be deciphered. As they slinked past, Arya heard Catelynn's piercing voice call her out.

"Arya, where are you going? I thought you were tutoring with Sansa." She said, frowning. Arya turned, and Jon Snow continued off, leaving the main hall.

"I was . . . but, well, I finished. Sansa wanted to learn more of the knitting so she is staying later than normally." Arya lied. Catelynn sighed, running a hand through her long red hair. "Where are you going with him?" She asked, finally.

"To the Godswood." Arya replied, breathless. Catelynn curled her mouth, and looked down at the direwolf, Nymeria.

"So be it. Be careful." She said, and turned back to her work in the hall, preparing for the king. Arya sped off, leaving the warm building of Winterfell and graced by the cool air of the outside. The sound of dozens of ships buzzed in the air, and Arya looked above her, eyes filled with wonder as large barges loomed over Winterfell, lower than the gray clouds as hovercrafts zoomed between landing docks and the massive sky-behemoths.

"I've never seen so many ships." Jon said behind her. She jumped, then relaxed as he walked ahead, settling in her view. He was right. Their Father hated technology, but it seemed that a visit from the King made him forget his own conventions.

They made their way to the shimmering glass of the Godswood, the interior of it in stark contrast with the mechanical jungle that had taken root within the Winterfell walls. Inside, they saw two people conversing. Jon paused by the glass panel, and Arya stood next to him, placing her hand on the shifting wall.

Robb and Eddard.

"I- can't" Jon began, but Arya shook her head, pushing him through the glass of the Godswood. They stood still, feet sinking in the moist earth as Eddard glanced up at them, while Robb's icy eyes met Jon's.


	10. EDDARD

The tension in the Godswood was palpable. Jon and Robb glared, each one of them with fury written on their faces. Arya stood by Jon, looking more and more like Lyanna every day. Eddard himself sighed, drawing his cloak together so that it covered his entire body. His eyes caught Jon then, amazed by how much the boy looked like himself. Eddard had to force himself not to smile, force himself not to look at Jon with more approval than his trueborn son.

But Jon was a true Stark.

"Enough, you two." Eddard said silently, and Robb bowed his head respectfully, dropping his gaze at Jon.

"It is good that you have come here. After I speak to you, I will need to also consult with your other siblings."

Arya cocked her head, much like the wolf that waited patiently at her feet.

"Why do you need to speak with Sansa and Bran? Rickon too?" She pressured as Jon bent over and put his direwolf on the soft ground. Robb stiffened.

"You shouldn't have brought your wolves here." He said coldly. Eddard frowned at his son, who was almost of height with him.

"Enough, Robb. DIrewolves are as much as the North as the Godswood is. Now pay attention. It will not be long before the King arrives. Robert will no doubt be excited to see you . . . but the Lannisters . . "

Robb looked at him with those chilling eyes, as pale as ice that resisted the touch of the sun, absorbing rather than reflecting. Those eyes unsettled Eddard, eyes that reminded him of fowl things.

_His eyes . . . he looks like Roose Bolton. _

The thought came unbidden, and Eddard felt shame as he pushed it away. But he could now see it was true. Roose's eyes were not blue, rather a milky white, pale and glossy: but somehow their eyes shined dully the same, frigid and untouchable. Eddard shook himself, freeing his mind from the ghastly visage of Roose Bolton, Lord of the Dreadfort.

"The Lannisters are dangerous. They will be cordial, but Tywin and I did not part on good terms. I fear if we are not all careful, they will find some way to harm us."

Robb's face went as hard as stone.

"They wouldn't dare harm a Stark inside the walls of Winterfell." He grumbled. Above them, the trees of the Godswood swayed underneath the soft touch of artificial air flow, freeing orange leaves as large as Eddard's head to the ground. Arya laughed as one danced towards her, grasping at it with her small fingers.

"They would. The Lannisters killed Prince Rhaegar's son and daughter within the walls of their castle, and then raped and murdered his wife. There is no low they will not sink to, and I know Tywin disapproved of Robert's friendship with me. I only ask you to be careful. Something does not feel right about this." Eddard sighed, and offered his children a smile.

"I must attend to some personal duties, and then I need to speak to your siblings." He looked at them, and they gave him expectant glances. He awkwardly shuffled past them, leaving the glass-shield of the Godswood with a flourish of his wolf-skin cloak. Winterfell was still abuzz with activity. He looked up to the skies, his hair billowing around him as a large merchant ship lifted away from the castle and into the hazy skies. Men moved around him quickly, yelling and ordering and directing machines and workers. In all of this excitement, he was nearly invisible. Eddard saw Arya's face again, even though she was still in the Godswood. And Jon . . .

_Lyanna. _

He had not visited his sister in some time. There was an underground tunnel to the tombs, but Eddard decided to ride out to the main entrance, hidden underneath a hill and behind a belt of trees. Eddard made his way to the stables, picked a horse, and rode out of Winterfell's gates, which had been left open for days now, due to the increase of traffic. He weaved between large hovercraft transports, personal grav-lifts, and men gave him quizzical looks, smug inside their vehicles, protected from the cold. He whipped his reigns harder, and the horse charged into the open world, trees closing in around Eddard as he rode. The wind was in his hair again, and he _smiled, _the premature age on his face seemingly vanishing. He remembered a simpler time, when he was no older than Jon, Lyanna helping him ride a horse. He had been a timid child, and the creatures frightened him. Brandon would always laugh at him whenever he flinched as a horse drew near, and even their Father grew exasperated.

"Damn it Edd, you're a Stark, not a craven." Rickard had said. But they were all dead now, and all that remained of them were the ghosts of memories, nothing more. The thought sobered Eddard as he rode through the rough lands of the North. He strayed away from towns that straddled Winterfell, away from the sound of the Andal machines as they invaded. He was a _Stark_, the blood of the First Men ran through his veins, to the very core of his bone, to the marrow. He was _Lord _Stark now, Warden of The North. He saw the familiar trees, the great oaks that straddled the doors of the tomb, drilled into the foot of a large stone hill. He could see the door now, dark gray metal covered by frost. The door had not been touched since the last time Eddard had come to visit. He rode his horse close, trees closing over him as the lip of the hill darkened his view, obscuring the sky. He dismounted, and walked to the door.

He placed a cool hand on the metal, unflinching as cold settled in on his barren palms. The door creaked open, slowly as ancient pistons were activated, shaking off ice and rust as they rattled and lifted the heavy door. Eddard drew in his breath, entering the tomb as the heavy door slid shut behind him. It was dark for a few moments, until a long hallway was illuminated by dim lights. He walked forward, and to his left, behind a wall of glass, stood the ghosts of his youth. Lyanna, perfectly reconstructed, her artificial face so real it seemed as if it was really her. Eddard placed a hand on the glass, drawing it with him as he walked. Brandon was next, strong and robust. He had darker hair than Eddard, and was always clean-shaven. A handsome man, he was meant to inherit Winterfell, and he looked the part of Lord better than Eddard ever could. Rickard came next. Eddard smiled sadly at the face of the man, wrinkled and creased but kind. The facial reconstructors had done well. All of them looked as if they were locked in some comatose state, and that they would soon waken. Further down, the Stark line continued, until gradually technology faded away, and the appearances of Starks were cast in stone, not replicated with skin-like mesh. He went back to Lyanna, her face sad. The war was fought for her, only for her to die in Eddard's arms. So much death. He could see his reflection in the glass now, his face looming above Lyanna's. He then saw himself, younger, his sword in hand, as he stood at the foot of the Tower Of Joy.

"I looked for you on the Trident." Eddard said softly as his companions advanced. Three members of the Kingsguard stood vigil at the door, guarding Lyanna by order of Rhaegar Targaryen, who Eddard had seen die by Robert's hand. Howland Reed, William Dustin, Ethan Glover, Martyn Cassel, Theo Wull, and Mark Ryswell stood with Eddard as Gerold Hightower, Oswell Whent, and Arthur Dayne wore the white armor and cloaks of the Kingsguard. Arthur Dayne wore a shining half-helm, and Eddard could see his reflection on the curving headpiece. His face was young, unlined and smooth. Just a boy. He had fought in a brutal war and he was just a boy.

"Robert would have been killed had we been there." Gerold said almost conversationally.

Eddard moved forward, his sword ready. "When Lannister ships bombed King's Landing, one of yours slew your Aerys with his golden sword. Again, I questioned where you were."

"Far away." Oswell answered, his sword twisting in a flourish.

"If we had been there, Aerys would still live, and Jaime would burn in the seven hells."

"When I broke the siege on Storm's End, Tyrell and Redwyne dipped their banners. I was sure you would be among them."

It was Arthur who answered Eddard this time. Through the pale blue visor of his helmet, Eddard could see his violet eyes.

"The Kingsguard do not bend the knee." He said steely.

"Ser William took his ships and fled to the moon of Dragonstone with Prince Viserys and his sister. I thought you would be with him."

"William is good and true," Gerold said, stepping towards Eddard.

"But he is not of the Kingsguard." Arthur finished, his sword ready. It was pale, liked sharpened bone that had been left out in the sun. It reflected whatever it faced, distorted it and made it contemptuous.

"We swore an oath."

There was a scream from the Tower, a deep and curdling cry of pain that Eddard almost dropped his sword in surprise. Anger took him then as he faced the three Kinsguard.

_Lyanna. _

"And so it begins." Gerold said calmly. Eddard raised his sword high, his metal gauntlets clicking against the hilt of the weapon.

"No." Eddard spoke hard between clenched teeth as his comrades moved up with him.

"It ends."

It was seven against three, and none of Eddard's group survived, save for Howland Reed and himself. Eddard would have been killed if it had not been for Howland, who sustained an injury on his leg protecting Eddard from a blow that would have ended his life by the hand of Arthur. But they arrived too late. Lyanna was in a bed covered with petals, her face sweat covered and stricken.

"_Promise me, Edd." _She had begged him as he held her, his warm tears falling on her bloodied sheets.

"_Promise me." _

Eddard gasped as he returned to the future. Fourteen years had passed since then. Fourteen short years, and now so much was different. The Targaryen Dynasty was a distant memory, all of the cruel deeds of King Aerys slowly fading away with each passing day. The war was fought for Lyanna, and in the end, Robert lost. He gained the crown, but he never had the love that his heart desired. Eddard shuddered as he left the tomb, the heavy door clicking shut as it locked behind him. His horse waited patiently, and he climbed into the saddle, running a hand through his hair.

_Winter came fourteen years ago. At the Tower of Joy. _

Eddard rode back to Winterfell.


	11. VISERYS

VISERYS twisted his nose as Dothraki sluts presented him platters of horsemeat, half raw. He scowled and insulted them, angry that they couldn't understand his words. However, his _tone _seemed appropriate enough, as they quickly retreated from him. Beside Viserys, Illyrio sat inside a round pod, supported by six arachnid-like legs that buckled every time Illyrio laughed. The man was stuffing his face with blood sausages, spilling Dothraki hard liquor and grease over his fine oversized tunic, his large breasts very apparent in the loose-fitting garb. Viserys himself allowed his hair to touch the slight and slender bend of his white shoulders, while a black shirt hugged his slim chest. Sheep-skin trousers dyed the color of night wrapped themselves around his thin legs, and his borrowed sword waited patiently inside its hilt, tied to a belt that was buckled around his waist. The sound of the Dothraki was appalling. Their language was guttural and deep, and even the woman sounded like men when they spoke. They ranged from varying colors of dirt- From tan sand to dark sun burnt mud, with hair the color of manure and eyes the shade of tossed loam.

"Why does she get the seat of honor? I am the one that is going to be King." Viserys waved another platter away, sneering at the fat Dothraki bitch that offered it to him. It looked as if it was a platter of _bugs, _and Visery's stomach turned as Illyrio's fat fingers captured half a dozen of the savage morsels, filling his mouth with every hard _crunch. _

"Because she is what the Dothraki call a Khalessi, the wife of a Khal."

Viserys frowned as he watched Daenerys sit timidly next to her soon-to-be-mate, Khal Drogo. The man's bloodriders stood by them, wearing their strange bandages and helmets. They seemed to be laughing, save for Daenerys, who jolted at every touch or beckon, which for the most part was from servers, offering her food. Viserys found solace in that.

_She still needs me. She will never not need me, no matter what she becomes._

Visery's purple eyes found themselves focused on the large fire that smoked in the center of the wedding ceremony, a large boar-like creature roasting on a pit. Dothraki weddings were strange affairs: There were no seats, save for guests of honor, and all entertainment was self-sustained. Viserys had seen three deaths already, men dueling each other as others mounted women, some of them still clothed. The sun slowly set, and in the distance, Viserys could see the city of Pentos gleam in an orange glare. From here, he could still see ships as they flew to and fro the city, and for a moment he was amazed that such blatant differences in technology could coexist.

"Once this wedding has finished, we can make our way to Westeros." Viserys muttered. He imagined the Iron Throne, and he sitting on it. He would kill all of those involved in the rebellion, Baratheon and Stark alike. He would burn them all, and then all Westerosi would know to fear him, as they feared Aegon three hundred years ago. His silver hair waved as the wind picked up, causing the smell of the boar to reach his nose. He _was_ hungry, but he refused to eat. He was the blood of the Dragon, and would not share meat and mead with mud-skinned barbarians.

"It is almost finished, My Prince. All that remains is the gift giving."

"Gifts?" Viserys smirked at that. What gifts could these animals produce, save for the dirt-colored body of a squalling newborn or the head of some enemy? He actually _did _hope that Khal Drogo would be given heads- Daenerys would be frightened, and in the night she would come to him . . . and then he could . . .

_No. Not until they consummate the wedding. Then I can have her._

Illyrio had said as much when he had caught Viserys sneaking into Daenery's room some nights past. He wasn't truly attracted to her romantically, but he believed it his duty to have her first, as Targaryen brothers and sisters had done for centuries. The fact that this _Khal _would experience the sensation of relation with a being much higher than him disgusted Viserys. The Khal was worse than the Westerosi. The Westerosi could be mated with, if one could find a fitting mate, and if there was no alternative. He had learned as much from his histories, when a Targaryen Prince would marry a Martell or a Dayne because no Targaryen princess was available to him. But this Khal was nothing, nothing but a talking animal.

"Have you brought a gift?" Viserys questioned. Illyrio grinned, his yellow teeth marked with bits of insect shell and appendages.

"I have." He said with a smile. Viserys looked at him expectantly, and when illyrio did not move, he curled his lips in anger.

"Well? What is it. Show me." Viserys hissed.

"Not until the other gifts are offered, My Prince. Mine shall be last. Now, look, they are starting now."

Viserys settled into his chair as a line was formed before the Khal. Men brought chests filled with various items: Weapons, armor, and jewels. A fat bull was shown, and the Khal clapped his hands in delight, and said something in his gross Dothraki. In seconds, the bull was dead and cut, slices of meat roasting on the iron grill of the fire, while the pig-like beast turned over it, dripping hot grease. More and more men came, and some impressive offerings were seen: A new hovercraft, shiny and large, with mounted cannons and voice command. Another man gave the Khal two autonomous machines, larger than a man. The machines held electric-powered spears, and the Khal demanded to see how powerful they were. He had two Dothraki face the robots, and one of the savages died fighting. The surviving Dothraki took his comrade's curved blade, and felled the two machines in an impressive feat of grace and strength. Khal Drogo ordered the man who had given the gift beheaded, and the Dothraki who vanquished the machines was given a hardy reward.

Finally, the pistons that powered Illyrio's pod began to growl as the man made his way down from the raised platform that separated them from the dirty ground. Beside Illyrio, a homely girl carried a large black box. Viserys followed, his brows furrowed as the Dothraki stared at him, some smiling. He put his hand on the pommel of the sword, and continued.

Khal Drogo spoke, and Illyrio bowed, as well as he could as the legs of his pod bent. Khal looked at Viserys, who stood defiantly. Illyrio quickly said something in Dothraki, and Khal Drogo fell silent, but his eyes never left Visery's. The girl softly put the box at Daenery's feet, and Illyrio gave a long-winded speech to the Khal. He nodded, and the girl unlatched the black box, all of the people close to them peering inside. Viserys himself was interested, and leaned over to see what the merchant had conjured.

Hope, fear, and anger mixed within Visery's mind as his face contorted and his lilac eyes flared open. Inside of the box, three large eggs would found, nestled between red flowers and maroon padding.

_Not just any eggs. _Viserys thought to himself.

_Dragon eggs. _


	12. JON III (part 1)

Robert Baratheon's court had arrived early in the morning. Jon woke to the sound of horns and trumpets, which in turn awakened all of Winterfell. In his small room he was privy to a clear window of the outside court and the metallic gates, and in the cold dawn air, the sky a strange mix of purples and blues, Jon Snow saw the King. Not directly, of course, but his retainers, knights, and men. The large sigil of House Baratheon, that proud ebony stag, was seen everywhere within Winterfell in a matter of moments. Tiny hovercrafts zipped ahead, creating a perimeter for the king's large bus. Orders and names were shouted, and the noise roused Ghost, who slept at the foot of Jon's bed. The direwolf launched itself from the mattress and padded toward's Jon's leg. The bastard smiled and pet Ghost behind the ears, and Ghost seemed to grin back, a red tongue lolling from his mouth.

Jon Snow turned his attention back to the action outside. Robert Baratheon's bus had dozens of wheels, and was nearly two stories high. It barely fit through the gates, and inside Winterfell it took up a grotesque amount of space. Jon already saw armored men wearing Baratheon colors, armed with scanners while swords dangled from leather hilts. After they moved about Winterfell, one of them gave a thumbs up and patted the side of the bus. As the doors of the vehicle hissed open, Jon noticed that all of the Starks were already awake and dressed, waiting for the King. Jon felt a pang of hurt as he saw the family, Robb looking strong and tall, while Bran and Rickon both jostled one another, until Catelynn gave them an icy glare. Arya and Sansa were presented beautifully, and even Arya, such a tomboy, had a regal appearance. But the most magnificent of them was Lord Eddard Stark.

He was not a big man. He was not particularly strong, or skilled with the blade. In all respects, Eddard was average- But there was _something _about the way the man carried himself, something about the way he spoke that made him frightening. His long dark brown hair waved gently as wisps of black fur tickled Eddard's strong chin, the fur coming from his bear-hide cloak. He stood before the rest of his family, and his grey eyes would be the first thing the Baratheons see. The doors of the bus released a hiss and a plume of smoke, and for a chilling few moments, no one breathed, including Jon. He leaned as far out from his window as he dared to get a better look of his visitors.

The first thing he saw was the Lannister flag. Confused, he furrowed his brow and leaned further.

A small man was the first to jump out of the bus. Holding a blue holodisk in his hand, he cleared his throat, and declared shrilly "Presenting Robert Baratheon, Cersei Baratheon, Joffery Baratheon, Tommen Baratheon, Myrcella Baratheon: Of _House _Baratheon, Kings of the land." The clan of Baratheons then exited the bus.

Jon saw a very fat and a very large man who looked more like a bear than a human. He was tall, nearly six feet, and had thick arms and a broad chest. His legs were fat, however, and his behind was almost comically huge. His face was covered with bristled hair that was darker than night, and similarly colored eyes widened as they caught sight of Eddard Stark. It was then Jon realized, with incredulous disbelief, that the man he saw was _Robert Baratheon. _He was confused.

Lord Eddard Stark had said that Robert was in every sense of the word a hero: Strong, tall, and handsome. Eddard had spoken of how Robert's enemies would quail in sight of him, dipping their banners or falling on their swords. Jon Snow himself knew that Robert beat both of Balon Greyjoy's sons, killing them in the rebellion, which was no small feat, considering the Balon Brothers were both renowned ravagers, who fought with axe and electric whips and airships that rain death upon those who walk the earth. But Robert Baratheon killed them both, and put an end to Balon's Rebellion. The man Jon saw now did not seem one who could even fight the temptation of an extra meal.

"EDDARD! YOU HAVEN'T CHANGED AT ALL!" Robert Baratheon bellowed. Jon's father faltered and then spoke, too quiet for Jon to hear. Robert guffawed in laughter, trapping Eddard in a bear hug.

"BECAUSE KINGSHIP HAS MADE ME FAT, MY OLD FRIEND." Robert bellowed as Jon shifted his attention to the rest of the Baratheons. The queen, Cersei, was a pale woman with a slim but alluring figure. She had bright blond hair braided into a thick tail that traveled down her neck and around her shoulders. Beside her, a young man stood with cropped hair the color of beaten gold. He had a sharp and handsome face, standing almost as tall as Robb. The girl looked to be around eleven or younger, with a soft and trusting face and yellow hair. She wore a yellow and black cloak, and was shivering visibly. Jon felt sorry for her. Andals usually didn't like the cold of the North. The youngest child was a plump boy, who hugged Cersei while she glared at her husband's back. She murmured something, and Robert swung around, eyes wroth with fury.

"Quiet, WOMAN!" He snapped. But as she dealt him an icy stare, Robert coughed and fell back, standing next to her. The small man who had announced the Baratheons resumed.

"Jaime Lannister, Tyrion Lannister, of House Lannister." He said proudly.

The first one to leave the bus was not a man at all, but a god. Jon was awed as the man's white cape billowed perfectly in the wind, wrapping around his athletic figure as his golden hair shined as it rivaled the rising sun. He had a square face and a handsome demeanor. Questionably, he waited by the step of the bus, and Jon watched, interested as to what the man was doing. Finally, a shadow shuffled into view. A child wrapped in a red cloak gingerly stepped down on the cold ground, assisted by the golden man. Cersei frowned at the display, and Jon wondered who the child was.

_Perhaps the man's son? _He wondered. His heart skipped a beat then-

_What if the young child is a bastard? _Jon felt a twang of understanding empathy as the child stood with the golden man, some ways away from the Baratheons. There were two Lannisters announced, and Jon leaned on the port of his window expectantly, waiting for the man to reveal himself.

But he never came. The child, however, removed his red hood, and Jon was greeted with the ugliest creature he had ever seen. The dwarf had a thin, snooping nose and cruel lips that were curled back in a horrendous smile. Dusty brown hair raggedly hugged his oversized head, and the dwarf moved with an awkward gait. The creature then suddenly looked up at Jon directly, smiling at him with a malformed grin. The others followed his gaze, and Jon ducked from the window, hiding as Robert Baratheon's voice crashed into his ears.

"_WAS THAT THE BASTARD?"_


	13. JON III (part 2)

JON SNOW was hiding in his room when Catelynn came for him. She was dressed all the noblewoman, with a regal-looking blouse on, embroidered with her personal coat of arms: a white direwolf standing on a blue and red field, the designs of House Stark and House Tully combined. His direwolf growled slowly, and Jon backed into the corner of his room as Catelynn advanced on him.

"You are not to show your face about the inside of the castle. Is that understood?" She hissed, a thin finger pointing at him. Jon nodded as Ghost retreated behind his legs. Catelynn frowned and made her way to his doorway. As she did so, she paused, and turned around to look at him.

"Eddard should have left you to starve in the household of whatever bitch he bore you on." Catelynn picked up her dress and hurriedly left his room. Jon watched as she left, and then finally rose to close his door, which was left open in her wake. The castle may be off limits to him, but he knew one place where even Catelynn could not force him to leave. Jon gathered his things and made his way to the training grounds, Ghost padding behind him.

The castle was awash in activity, and he was able to pass through unseen, outside of the castle doors, and through the courtyard, which was currently being dusted by a flurry of snow. He had worn his own wolf-skin cloak, and pulled the hood around his head as he moved through the court, finding himself at the entrance of the training ground. He frowned instantly.

Baratheon and Lannister men were everywhere. Among them, Jon spotted the godly Lannister he had seen before, again followed by the dwarf creature. But he saw other faces as well, Rodrik Cassel and Bran among them. Inside the square, Robb and the eldest Baratheon, Joffery, fought. Jon allowed himself to inch closer, sticking to the outskirts of the square, hiding underneath the shadow of the looming messhall. Robb and Joffery grunted as they traded blows, their play-swords crashing against each other dully.

"Ah, Lord Snow." Theon said as he seemingly manifested out of nowhere. His trademark bow was in his hands, folded but ready to be opened at a moment's notice. He wore a green full-body tunic, a hood covering his head as black belts crossed his chest. Dark green boots traveled upwards to his ankles, and he smiled as a plume of white smoke drifted from his mouth. He stood near the weapon rack of the messhall, directly behind the action.

"What are you doing here?" Jon asked as Ghost went up to Theon. Theon offered his hand to the direwolf, and Ghost licked it, tail waving.

"Watching. What are you doing here, if I may parrot the question?" Theon asked, eyebrow raised.

"Catelynn said the castle was off-limits to me. So I came here."

Theon smiled warmly as he wiped his hand off on Jon's cloak.

"Ah, she does not want to see the bastard. Or rather, she does not want the King and Queen to see the bastard."

There was a yelp and a chorus of cheers as Robb was pushed backward. Joffery Baratheon attacked with reckless abandon, hacking away at Robb's defense with savage grace.

"Your brother is losing." Theon said conversationally. Jon ignored him and watched the fight. Robb spun on his heels and attempted to strike Joffery by surprise, aiming for Joff's leg. Joffery, however, saw the attack coming, and flipped his blade downward, blocking the blow. He then dragged his sword forwards, knocking Robb off-balance and then elbowing him in the stomach. Robb grunted, staggering backwards as Joffery slammed the flat of his sword across Robb's stomach. Robb fell over, Joffery placing the tip of his blade at Robb's neck.

"How's that, Hound?" Joffery asked as the Baratheons and Lannisters cheered. Jon saw that Bran was restrained by Rodrik, who watched with anger in his eyes. Theon whistled.

"Look at that one, Snow." Theon whispered, pointing at the man who clapped as Joffery beamed at him.

Half of his face was nothing more than a melting slop. Skin partially sagged over angry eyes as the left portion of his nose was burned, almost to the bone. His flesh was red and shiny, oozing pus that stained his collar. Black hair flourished on the right side of his head, but on the left he was bald, bulging black veins coursing underneath leathery skin. His left ear was nothing more than a burnt bump of flesh, and in his hands he carried a helm that was in the image of a black dog's head.

"You've learned well, Joffery. You can now return home telling how you skinned a wolf."

There was a barrage of laughter as Robb blushed, abashed. Jon suddenly felt bad for Robb, and before he realized it, he was walking towards the flat. Theon called after him, but he didn't listen. Robb turned as he heard Jon's footsteps, and his eyes were _watery, _bordering on tears. Jon paused at that, but when Robb blinked, the emotion was gone.

"Who are you?" Joffery asked as Robb opened his mouth. Jon looked up, past Robb, and eyed the Baratheon boy coldly.

"Jon." He said quietly.

Joffery frowned.

"The previous Hand was named Jon. But he's dead. What's your _full _name?" He pressured.

The handsome man in the white cloak answered Joffery.

"It's _Snow. _He's the bastard from earlier." He said with a chuckle.

"Ah, thank you, Uncle Jaime. Well Bastard, what do you want?"

Jon felt himself redden, but he would not stand down. Jon swallowed hard, eyeing Theon, who stood with Ghost. Theon nodded his head, and Jon returned his gaze to Joffery.

"A fight."

Laughter was his answer, Baratheons, Lannisters, and even a few Starks guffawing. Joffery himself almost fell over, leaning on his sword for support.

"You- You want to fight _me? _I'm a Prince. You're a bastard. Hardly equal footing." He choked. Robb rose, glaring at Jon.

"Give it up, you fool." Robb said between clenched teeth. Jon grimaced.

_Can't you see that I'm doing this for you, you fool?_

"You should fight him, Joff. It would be interesting, to say the least." All eyes followed the lips of the horrid dwarf as it spoke.

"Tyrion, you can't be serious-" Jaime began, but Tyrion continued.

"I see no harm in it. Joffery may be a Prince, but they are all _boys. _Besides, this one has a more wolfish look to him. Joffery, if you beat him, you can truly say you skinned a wolf. If you stop at Robb, you can only brag about gutting a fish."

Joffery laughed jovially, and Robb reddened even further, brushing past Jon and into the messhall.

"Very well, Uncle Tyrion. Bastard, I shall grant you your fight." Joffery said, lifting up the play-sword in a defensive position. Jon picked up Robb's fallen weapon, holding it before him, the blade bisecting Joff's body as the Baratheon boy advanced, his blonde hair waving in the wind, flakes of snow catching themselves within his locks.

Jon rushed forward, pushing his heels into the ground, catching Joff by surprise. He waved his sword above Joff's head, and the Prince raised his blade in defense, only for Jon to switch his grip on the hilt, and strike at Joffery's side. The Prince _was _good, and he deflected the attack, narrowly. Joffery retreated as Jon advanced, his sword everywhere at once. Joffery put up a good defense, but Jon could see the boy quickly tiring.

_You don't conserve your energy. That is your problem. _

Jon ducked as Joffery sliced at the air waywardly, raising his voice in desperation. The Baratheons and Lannisters were deadly quiet. The Stark's were too, and Jon frowned as he broke apart Joffery's feeble counterattack.

_Let them remain quiet. _

It wasn't until he heard Bran's voice that his anger demised. Small and childish, it fueled him further.

"Jon, Jon, Jon," The boy chanted. Theon took up the call as well, his deeper tone supplementing Bran's. Soon, the rest of the Starks began to chant for Jon, adding their voices to Bran and Theon's. Jon struck the blade away from Joffery's hands, and then slapped the flat end of his sword across Joffery's face. He went flying backwards, landing on the heated surface of the training square. Jon eyed the Baratheons and the Lannisters. They scowled at him as Joffery rubbed his cheek, rising with anger in his voice.

"_Cheater_!" He cried, pointing at Jon with an accusatory finger.

"YOU CHEATED!" He screamed. The dwarf laughed, and Joffery flung himself around.

"You think this is funny? I order you to fight him then, let's see how you do on those disgusting legs of yours." Joffery teased, and Tyrion's mirth vanished.

"Jon Snow, is it? You can now tell your friends, whoever they may be, that you skinned a brat of a lion pup today." Tyrion clapped for Jon, much to the dismay of Joffery.

"I ORDER YOU TO FIGHT! MAKE HIM FIGHT!" He screamed, and Baratheon men made their way towards Tyrion. Jaime stepped between them, his face hardened.

"You mindless dolts. Stand down." He said as the men faltered.

"Uncle Jaime-"

"Enough, Joffery. You _lost. _ Now stop making a fool of yourself." Jaime said.

Joffery, still fuming, stomped out of the training grounds, Jaime, Tyrion, and the rest of the King's men leaving with him. Starks slowly began to funnel out as well, some of them clasping Jon on the shoulder. Bran rushed to Jon, nearly knocking him over as he gave him a wide-armed hug.

"You beat him! You beat him!" Bran cried. Jon laughed, rustling Bran's hair. He looked up and saw Theon with Rodrik, though Robb was nowhere to be seen. Rodrik looked at Jon impassively, but Theon grinned, and mouthed something to Jon as Bran giggled excitedly, recanting the match.

_Good Job, Lord Snow. _

It was at that point that Jon decided that Theon could be counted among his friends, along with Ghost and Bran and Arya. Then Theon's warning came bursting into Jon's mind, fresh and raw. Catelynn Stark's bright blue eyes burned within Jon's brain, and he knew he would hear of this, sooner or later.


	14. EDDARD II

(Sorry I haven't updated in a while. Been working on my Eragon fanfic. Anyway here we go)

**EDDARD**

"She shouldn't be down here. She should be out in the sun, where everyone can see her."

Robert wrapped his boar-skin cloak around his round body, hot gusts of white breath seeping from between his mouth. Eddard stood next to him, silent as stone.

"Damn it Ned, say something." Robert growled. Eddard straightened his stance, grey eyes settling on the side profile of his King, Robert Baratheon.

"There is nothing to say, My Grace. She must remain with her kin." He answered softly, placing a hand on the glass that separated him from her. Robert scoffed.

"You Starks are elusive. Even in death it seems." Robert Baratheon rubbed his gloved hands together.

"Cold," He said in a heavy breath.

"Winter is coming." Eddard answered as Robert smiled warmly.

"I was talking about you, Ned. Were you always so cold?" He asked. Eddard offered him a small grin, some of his youth returning to his face.

"Yes. You are just too drunk to remember."

Robert guffawed, a large throaty laugh that reminded Eddard of their youth together. Brandon had been his true brother, but Robert was closer to Eddard, closer than Brandon could ever hope to be. They had fought a vicious war, ousted the Targaryens, and won a throne together. The bond they shared could not be formed from anything less. Robert grew uncharacteristically quiet then, sighing heavily.

"There is a reason I came here, Ned." He seemed _sad, _And Eddard knew what was coming next.

"Jon," Eddard looked away from Robert, and back to the closed eyes of Lyanna, who slept beyond the glass.

"He was more of a father to you and me than the ones who bore us. And now he is dead, Ned. He couldn't have passed at a worse time." Robert began to walk along the line of deceased Starks, and Eddard followed, his cape dragging behind him as lights above turned on in time with each of their steps. Eddard watched as the Starks passed by : His Brother Brandon, his Father, Rickard, and his father. The faces continued for dozens of feet, until they were replaced with stone resemblances, crafted hundreds of years ago.

"He couldn't have died at a worse time, Ned. The Kingdom is going bankrupt, and the Great Houses are scrabbling for power. The Martells have grown silent, an even quieter tone ever since the war. They _hate _us, Ned. I know they do."

They both fell silent, as the subject of Elia and her children was a point of contention between them.

"Lady Arryn has run back to the Eyrie, and the Tyrells grow more and more audacious. The realm is on the brink of war Ned, and I don't know how to fix it. That is why I have named you the New Hand."

The words fell on Eddard harder than any blow he had endured, sharper than any blade that had slid across his pale skin.

"I do not deserve the honor, My Grace." Eddard imagined being away from Winterfell, and in King's Landing, that abominable Andal metropolis, with ships and hovercrafts choking the streets and the air above, smog billowing from various factories, and the smell of the poor rabble that slept on the heated streets as the hot Andal sun baked them during summer.

"I wish I could have killed Rhaegar more than once, Ned. He won. Him and his Targaryens. Everything would have been better if he hadn't taken Lyanna. Everything . . . "

Robert stopped, and Eddard stared down the long hall, the dull-lights that lined the ceiling stopping where they did. Eddard stared into the darkness, as the stone statues dwindled in the lessening light.

"You have a daughter, and I have a son, Ned. They should be wed, and truly join our houses together like they should have been years ago. She will come with you to King's Landing. I know you believe that a Stark should always been in Winterfell, so Robb will remain here. Catelynn may stay or go, depending on what she decides. Your other daughter should come as well. She'd make a good match for Tommen."

Eddard's eyes lingered on the wall of darkness before him. He wondered what would happen if he simply ran down the hall, fleeing Robert, fleeing King's Landing. He didn't want this. He refused to accept Robert's duty. But he found himself nodding, found himself kneeling before Robert, his head bowed, his hair falling over his face.

"Eddard Stark of Winterfell, Lord of House Stark. Rise, as Hand of the King. In the name of the Andals, the first men . . . damn the rest, get up Eddard, it's cold." Eddard rose, his body numb.

"I still see his face sometimes." Robert said as they walked from the end of the ling line of dead Starks.

"Rhaegar?" Eddard asked.

"Only him, Ned. I heard Knights speaking of seeing the faces of the people they kill in their dreams. I never had that trouble, Ned. I've killed hundreds of men. Directly, I think. Indirectly? _Thousands. _I never see them. But Rhaegar . . ."

Robert clenched his teeth in anger, his steps growing more heavy.

"I won the duel on the trident. I _smashed his chest in. _Yet he wins the battle in my mind ever night, every sleepless night Ned. I see his face, I see him looking at me. I see the tears in his eyes as he limps backward. I see his open mouth when my hammer crashed into his chest. I see the blood falling from his mouth. I see a weak man, Ned. I see a man who lost. So how does he keep _beating me beyond the grave?" _ Robert wiped his eyes with fat hands, gasping.

"Look at me Ned. I'm a King, but look at me. I'm _fat. _I'm a drunk. I wasn't made for this type of thing. You were, Ned. You have the coldness. You have the brain."

"You had the better claim, Robert." Eddard answered. Robert laughed bitterly.

"Ah yes, the drop of Targaryen blood that gave me the throne. We oust the bastards, then people begin looking for the closest thing to them for their next King. Foolishness. It should have been you. And Cersei . . . Jon said I should marry her, to bring peace to the Kingdom. But she's _frigid, _Ned. All beauty and no compassion. And Joffery . . . "

Robert shook his head, watching silently as Eddard opened the cold and massive door that locked the tomb from the outside world. It groaned open as ice cracked on the metal, and Eddard pulled his hood over his face as a gust of freezing wind blew through them, throwing snow particles in their face as Robert's hovercraft waited at the outside of the tomb, humming silently.

"Damn the North," Robert said as they stepped through knee-high snow, their footprints nearly filled despite the fact they had left them not even thirty minutes ago. As Eddard sat into the Andal technology, he shared Robert's anger, but for a different location.

_Damn King's Landing. _Thought Eddard Stark, Hand to the King, Robert Baratheon.


	15. JON IV

**JON**

The bastard sat away from his brothers and sisters. In the large meadhall of Winterfell, it was easy for him to be forgotten among the numerous sons and lordlings that sat around him. However, for his family and the Baratheons, it was impossible for them to be skipped over by an unwary eye. They ate at raised tables in the center of the meadhall, glowing lights flaring below their seats. Lord Stark had cleanly shaven his face, and he looked nearly ten years younger.

_He looks like me. _Jon thought with a smile. Catelynn wore a gray dress that was supported by a white corset, her bosom overflowing evidently as she laughed with Robb, scolded Arya, and touched Eddard. His half-brothers all wore matching outfits and cloaks, emblems of House Stark and House Tully on them. Arya was adorned in a simple dress befit of a girl of her age, while Sansa was garbed in a slim-fitting red gown that matched her hair and seemed to glow with her bright eyes. The Lannister, Jaime, was easily the most handsome man at the table. His straight blonde hair perfectly accented the deep dimples at the corners of his mouth, while a gold doublet hinted at the athletic strength of his shoulders and chest. Cersei Baratheon was beautiful as well, wearing a modest orange and blue dress, and fine jewelry around her neck. Joffery wore the same colors, glaring down at his meal while Tommen and Mrcyella gobbled theirs, giggling as Robert Baratheon slowly became more and more drunk.

"I'm glad I'm not there." Jon said to himself quietly as his table grew rowdier. He felt a slight nudge underneath the table, and leaned over, smiling, to find Ghost at his leg. Jon ripped a piece of his food from his plate, and palmed it to Ghost underneath the table, laughing as the direwolf's rough tongue slid across his skin. A skeletal machine strutted past, carrying a tankard of ale as easily as a woman might carry flowers. Jon raised his cup, and the machine's red eyes clicked as they analyzed the movement, and then turned blue. The robot approached, put the tankard softly on the ground, and then connected a hose to its side.

"Your cup, please." The machine asked politely. Jon placed his large cup into the chest of the robot, and in seconds fresh ale came frothing back to him, the coldness of it sliding down the sides of the cup. Jon sipped gingerly at his drink while the machine went off to serve more guests. He drank quietly, and people for the most part ignored him. Around him conversation buzzed excitedly, and then something would happen or someone would make a jape that Jon only half-heard, and then the table would explode in laughter. It didn't matter if he was the subject or not, the laughter reddened him all the same. He sighed and leaned over his ale, his eyelids closing.

"That's a man's drink, Jon." Benjen said behind him. Jon jumped, nearly spilling his cup over on himself while Benjen slid onto a free spot on the bench that everyone at the long table shared.

"I am a man. I have a man's thirst." Jon said proudly.

"Before you have a man's thirst you first must have a man's _beard." _Benjen smiled at Jon. He looked away from Jon and focused his attention on Jon's father at the elevated table. Eddard's jaws were set, and every time Robert nudged him with his elbow or tapped him with a greasy finger, Eddard frowned, a slight turning at the mouth that only those who associate with him often would notice.

"Your father does not seem happy." Benjen commented, almost dully. He looked like Eddard, albeit younger, meaning he looked like Jon. Benjen didn't visit often, but when he did Jon found himself wishing to be like the man. Robb didn't like Benjen, and Catelynn liked him even less. The both of them disliked how he showed a bastard more attention than he did to the prince of Winterfell.

"Neither does Cersei. She seems annoyed for some reason." Jon rubbed his pointed chin.

"I do remember that the King and Lord Stark visited the tomb today." Benjen's eyes widened.

"That would do it. To the both of them. You never knew Lyanna . . . she was beautiful, Jon. More so than that Baratheon bitch up there. She was kind, loving, and had a little streak of wilding in her. She loved to race, Jon. She loved to fight, too. I remember Brandon used to secretly teach her how to use the blade and how to fire rifles."

Benjen reclined on nothing, pushing his arms against the edge of the table.

"You have no idea what we lost when she died. There will always be a hollow hole in our family, a hole that she left open when she died."

The two were silent for a long while, during which boisterous laughter erupted from the King as he spanked a passing woman who had given the high-table their fifth course. Cersei abruptly rose as a gust of laughter flew over her, and she hurriedly left the meadhall, while Robert mocked her all the while, his laugh growing louder with each of her steps.

"A brave man. But a fool." Benjen said, smirking.

"Lord Stark told me he used to be a great warrior. But all I see is a fat drunk. I assume that is what Kingship does to you." Jon said softly. Benjen laughed at that, granting Jon another smile.

"As clever as a Stark, you are. We need more men like you on the Wall." Benjen said. Jon remembered Theon's warning. He remembered the truth of his words. He then saw his own face, so much like Eddard's, being smothered while he slept. It would be a simple thing to kill a bastard. Some would event invite the occurrence.

"I want to join the Watch." Jon said abruptly as Benjen took a long drink from Jon's cup. He dropped the ale with a sigh, his alcohol-tinged breath blowing over Jon's face.

"The Watch is no place for a child." Benjen said slowly.

"I'm no child. Maester Luwin says bastards mature older than trueborn children. Even Old nan says so." Jon protested. Benjen smiled sadly at that.

"You've never felt the touch of a woman, you've never heard the laugh of your son as you cradle him in your arms. Father a bastard, and then think about joining the Watch." Benjen reached for Jon's cup, but found it not there as Jon flung the drink across the hall.

"I'll _never _father a bastard!" He cried, and then realized the meadhall had grown silent, save for Robert, who ate at his meal like it was his wife during their first marriage night. He saw Eddard gaze over to him, saw Catelynn's glare, reflected on Robb and Sansa. Bran looked curious, and Arya's face was crestfallen, worried for him. Jon felt tears at his eyes, and then rose quickly, stumbling away from them all as he felt the ale affect him. He tripped, and was privy to a blast of laughter as Ghost licked his ear. Jon gathered up the wolf and then rushed out of the closest door.

Outside, the sounds of the meadhall were eerily muted. The stars were bright in the night sky, and it was cold, but not bitterly cold. Rather, it seemed like an old friend, comforting and reliable. Outside of the meadhall there was nothing but a side door, which leads back inside. Other than that, there was nothing but a flat and smooth wall, and some boring-looking buildings that were cloaked in darkness. He leaned on the wall behind him, and looked to his left . . .

And saw the Queen.

She must have noticed him earlier, for her eyes had fallen to the ground. Jon froze, not wanting to stay there but not wanting to return to the meadhall. They both stood in silence for a long while, until Cersei let out a rasping cry, barely audible.

"He does this to me all the time." She said suddenly, still looking at the ground. In the light of the moon, her features were perfectly accented. The sureness of her jaw, the lusciousness of her hair.

"My Grace?" Jon stammered.

"Robert Baratheon. I tried to love him, you know. I did. But he is not faithful, Bastard of Winterfell. Early on, he could never keep to our bed. And then the years passed and his waistline expanded, all the while drinking and whoring. You'd think such a brave man would have honor, as well. But he doesn't. He is cruel, which is surprising, considering how much of a fool he is."

"I'm sorry . . . My Grace." Jon offered, and Cersei smiled bitterly.

"Well, at least you aren't reassuring me about how much Robert loves me. I've been fed that bullshit far too long, Bastard." Jon twitched at her usage of the word.

"I'm a queen, I can speak however I wish." Cersei stated matter-of-factly, and then settled her eyes on Jon's direwolf.

"Can I see it?" Cersei asked. Surprised and flustered, Jon nearly stumbled as he let Ghost free of his hold. The direwolf squirmed free and stood before Cersei, who let out her hand as the direwolf approached. It sniffed at her fingers, and then gifted her with a soft lick.

"Disgusting creature." She said, but her face smiled with youthful beauty.

"You look more like your Father than any of your siblings, Bastard." Cersei declared. Ghost returned to Jon's side, while the queen looked at him with a cocked head, the side of her face leaning on the wall.

"Never forget what you are, so that people cannot use anything against you. If you are aware of yourself, no insult, no jape, and no weakness borne of yourself can hurt you. The same law applies to the battlefield." Cersei said, quietly. Jon opened his mouth, but said nothing.

"You're wondering how would I know, aren't you? Well, in Robert's eyes, all women are tools. Bitches to be bred and to care for children while their husband moves on to the next. To the world, all women are bitches. But not all boys have to be bastards." Cersei smiled.

"Robert would like you. You're like Eddard. If you play your cards right, you'll rise fast. Robert has the power to grant you legitimacy." Jon's eyes widened, and Cersei sauntered away from him. Jon watched her as she left, walking with all of the confidence in the world, unaffected by the northern cold that swirled around her Andal skin.


	16. CATELYNN II

**CATELYNN **

Eddard rose from their bed, walking to the window that kept the harsh cold of the North away from their chambers. Of course, Eddard _was _of the North, and Catelynn could tell that the warmth of their room made him uncomfortable. He was naked, and the thin suppleness of his legs and the spindly strength of his shoulders and arms were the same as they had been when they first married. Catelynn leaned on her elbow as she watched his back, her blankets partially covering her breasts. She reached underneath them and placed a hand on her stomach, and hoped that they had conceived a son. In the darkness of night, lights flew across the sky, Andal ships patrolling the vast lands of the North, in the name of the king's safety. Robert Baratheon had not changed at all in character, but Catelynn had been surprised how _f_at he had become. In their youth, Catelynn had thought him even more handsome than Brandon Stark, but now . . . A smile was brought to her lips as she returned her attention to Eddard.

"You can open the window, Edd." She granted, and Eddard pressed the port-shield of the window, thin glass vanishing as the quiet wind of the outside world drifted into their room like a nervous ghost. The sounds of the ships beyond their room were more audible now, almost like howling beasts, announcing the coming season. Catelynn wrapped her blankets closer around her body.

_Winter is coming. _

"I plan to refuse him." Eddard said, turning around to face her as cold wind came from behind him.

"You cannot, Edd. You must not. This . . . this is a grand opportunity for you. For our family. You have a chance to rekindle your friendship with Robert, and refusing him would only foster his wroth. You saw him tonight, Edd. He's _lost. _He is no longer himself. He needs _y_ou." Catelynn could see the benefits. Sansa could marry Joffery, and the shared blood of House Tully and House Stark would join King's blood, to continue until the end of time.

"I know, Cat. I know. But . . . I am of the _N_orth, and I see omens. Signs. The direwolf killed by the stag . . . there must be more to it."

Catelynn smiled warmly at her husband.

"Robert is your closest friend. You fear your death by his hands?"

Edd ran a hand through his hair, frowning. He rubbed his shaven pointed chin, and looked at Cat with tired gray eyes.

"Brandon should have been Lord of Winterfell."

Catelynn frowned.

"But he is dead now. You must do your duty. You must do your duty to protect your family."

A knock rattled their door suddenly. Hardness returned to Eddard's face as he swore silently, going to his dresser and garbing himself in a large robe. He went to the door, opening it and Catelynn saw the face of their guard behind Eddard's shoulder.

"Maester Luwin says he has an urgent message for you." Their guard informed.

"Let him in." Eddard ordered, and the guard bowed politely, moving out of the way for the aged Maester to come in. He walked with a slight gait, heavy chains of differing colors locked about his neck. White hair wisped on his hair, while a creased face gave Catelynn a sad and heartbreaking smile.

"Lady Stark," He bowed. Eddard stood to the side of the man, imposing and cold.

"I received a gift today. A memory shard, of all things. It contained data images of various dornish crypts, from the time of Daeron. A rather boring gift, and I must admit I shrugged it off. However . . . ."

Luwin produced small metal square from the folds of his robes.

"What is it?" Eddard asked, reaching for the technology.

"A message . . . for Lady Stark. My apologizes, Lord." Luwin responded, sidestepping Eddard and giving the square to Catelynn. She took it from his warm hands, holding it in hers delicately. The square opened, nearly doubling in size, red lights forming a phantom sheet before her face. Her eyes scanned strange scribbles, symbols of fish and cats, circles and lines and crudely drawn faces arranged in neat paragraphs.

"After all of these years . . ." Catelynn said wistfully as she recognized the secret language she and Lysa had created in their youth. Catelynn rose quickly, still naked, and threw the unfurled square into the artificial fire, sparks flying from the furnace as the metal chip melted into oblivion.

"What did it say?" Eddard asked as Luwin loomed by him.

"Lysa claims that . . . . Jon was murded by the Queen and her Lannisters. Eddard . . . you _must_ go now." Luwin gave her a quizzical look.

"Robert had requested that Eddard become the new Hand."

Luwin covered his mouth with pallid hands.

"I am shocked . . . But I agree with Lady Stark, My Lord. The Hand is second only to the King, and your new power will allow you to discover the truth, and protect Lysa and her son. You claim that Robert is your brother, My Lord. If you excuse my blunt speech, an honorable Lord would not leave his brother and King in that den of vipers."

Catelynn watched as Eddard's face reflected on Luwin's words. The maester was right.

"I will go. But you will stay behind, Cat. You will teach Robb how to be a Lord. Rickon will stay here, but the rest will come with me. Sansa will wed Joffery, and Arya needs to learn how to be a proper lady instead of a budding Wildling. Bran . . . Bran will come with me as well."

Catelynn knew how her face looked. She loved all of her children, but Bran . . . he was so young, so sweet . . . he was her life, her joy.

"Edd . . . please. Let Bran stay here, where it is safe." Eddard looked at her not like a husband, but like a Lord.

"Bran will be needed. He must bridge the gap that was presides between Joffery and Robb. "

Catelynn knew there was nothing to say to that. She looked back at the fire behind her, and then refocused on Eddard.

"I will not endure the keeping of the Bastard." She said venomously. She hated Jon. Jon looked like a Stark, spoke like a Stark, and even worse, was loved by Eddard and Bran and Arya. She could forgive Edd for fathering a bastard, but she could not forgive him for raising one within her presence at Winterfell.

"The court is no place for a Bastard." Eddard said quietly. However, Maester Luwin coughed, and both Starks turned to him, waiting to hear him speak.

"As you know, Jon bested the Prince at the training grounds earlier today. The King's court was very impressed, and the Queen had requested me to bring the subject up of Jon's . . . future."

Catelynn knew what was coming next. She would have preferred the Bastard away for ever, but King's Landing was almost as far as death was...

"The Queen wants Jon at court?" Eddard said, amazed.

"She was impressed with what her brother Ser Jaime Lannister told her of his skill with the sword. She . . . She would like him to serve as Jaime's squire."

"Jon will not like this." Eddard said quietly. Catelynn felt lonely, despite the fact she was with a trusted friend and her husband. Eddard stood, his face shadowed by negative emotion.

"He will go. But I will tell him myself when the time comes. Let him enjoy the last few days he has within Winterfell with an untroubled mind."

With that statement, Catelynn knew all of their fates were sealed with the icy stamp of Stark authority. Luwin had left out a part of the story for Catelynn's sake, but she knew what had transpired.

_Jon beat Joffery when Robb had failed. _

She hated Jon even more for that, and wished nothing but pain for the boy. He was a disgusting blight on Eddard's flawless honor, a blight that he tolerated- No, a blight that he _loved. _

Catelynn went to bed troubled, thoughts entering her mind like whispering spirits.

_Who does Edd love more? Jon, or Robb?_


	17. TYRION

**TYRION **

_**And so Nymeria the conqueror married Mors Martell. It came to be that he assisted her in taking the rest of Dorne, and it had to be that Nymeria became the queen, taking Mors Martell as her King. This new dynasty ruled as their own Kingdom until the incursions of the Targaryen forces, which began with King D-**_

Tyrion slapped the databook shut, glowing words that once illuminated his face vanishing, leaving his room in darkness. He sighed, lifting his arms across his stunted legs to pull blankets taller than he up to his neck.

Tyrion sighed.

He was a Lannister. Had he been a girl he would be married to some high lord, surrounded by children. Had he been tall, like his brother Jaime, he would be a man of renown and fame. A man of great power and responsibility. But Tyrion was a dwarf. A _v_ery ugly dwarf. But such thoughts no longer bothered him as they did in his youth. He had decided not to allow himself to pity his shortcomings, as that would give his enemies leverage to weaken him. And a Lannister always had enemies, even when they were among friends. But as a Lannister always had enemies, a Lannister always repaid his debts.

"Chambermaid, can you make it a little warmer in here? I'm freezing my prick off." Tyrion complained. A low chime sounded, and a female voice answered.

"I am sorry, Lord Lannister. I have been pre-programed to maintain the room at a certain heat. I will raise the temperature at once."

Tyrion rolled to his side as the room he was in steadily became warmer. His abode was simple enough : A wide bed swallowed him hole, while a closed window gave him view of the Stark holdings below him. The window was to his right, and by his left a dresser was found, filled with his own clothing. In the corner of the room a servant machine waited eerily, red eyes staring ahead in the gloomy chamber.

He wondered if Robert had told that Stark Lord yet. He, like everyone in their company, had known what Robert was planning. He _assumed _that the Stark knew, judging by what Jaime had told him of the man. Jaime had said the Stark spoke to no one unless spoken to, and when he was addressed, he answered with cold politeness. Tyrion didn't blame Eddard Stark, however. King's Landing was a horrid place. Of course, the _upper _levels were nice. When you slept hundreds of feet above squalor, the smell of decay and desperation doesn't reach your nose. When you feast on gourmet food while inside a hovering flotilla that slowly moved through the low-flying clouds of smog that covered the city, it was easy to forget the poor who roasted rats on sticks and various other meats that would make roast rat a delicacy. Gangs of men roamed those parts of the city, and even the City Guard could not police them. The nobles lived in a false world of peace and harmony, while everyone else suffered. Jon Arryn had tried to stop it, but he was buffered by corruption. Tyrion knew, as Jon soon found out, that there were certain people, _v_ery guilty people, that he couldn't touch. Certain areas that were known to be hives of injustice that he could not shut down, and certain trades that he was not allowed to make illegal. Jon Arryn had gone as far as to consult Robert Baratheon, but if memory served Tyrion's mind correctly, Baratheon had said it was better to and employ those who thrived on corruption as opposed to fighting an enemy that was unseen yet everywhere. Tyrion had heard the voice of Varys when that statement was made, as Jon no doubt did. But again, there was nothing the Hand could do.

And now the Hand was dead.

Tyrion did not doubt the man was assassinated for a second. He was honorable. Too honorable. He couldn't sit by and sign declarations and smile like a proper Hand should. He had tried to _m_ake things better for the people, and that is why Tyrion did not think Jon's death had been natural.

_So who killed him? _

Tyrion smiled in the dark. His problem was that he thought too much. If he wasn't careful, he would find himself suffering from an incurable poison like Jon had. Still . . . He couldn't help but wonder. Varys was the Master of Whispers. A man who kept to the shadows, and filled the king's head with secret learning's he had no business knowing. The decision to be made after gaining the knowledge was the king's own choice to make, but Tyrion did not doubt that Varys made sure whatever path the King walked, it was in accordance with Varys' own designs.

Then there was Petyr Baelish. The man was Master of Coin, and seemed to make gold appear out of thin air. He was smart, devious, and dangerous. Of course, no one else believed he was. Petyr was every man's friend, with smart japes and a smile that could lower swords and raise visors. Baelish, however, was involved in various trades that were more questionable that managing the Kingdom's treasuries. He owned several brothels filled with budding girls and aged panthers of the bed sheets. Whoring in itself was not illegal, but it was strange to see such a likeable man as Petyr Baelish involved in the practice.

Tyrion turned again underneath his sheets. Regardless of the reason, Jon's death troubled Tyrion. _S_omething was brewing, and that was what bothered him. As a Dwarf, Tyrion enjoyed knowing everything about where he was going and what he was doing- He could afford no surprises. But now the landscape of court was being thrown into a demonic quake, and the plates of the earth shifted endlessly, leaving some who held power weak and those who seemingly had no strength at all above their former rulers. As a Lannister, you grew up with a sort of faux-immortality, seeing how people looked at you and treated you. Even though he was a dwarf, Tyrion was respected due to the colors he wore, the fearsome Lannister lion on his breast almost as powerful as Jaime's looks or Lord Tywin Lannister's armies. However, Tywin had a glum saying about how precarious life was.

_A Lannister may be made of gold, but gold can be melted down in a pot of iron. _

Tyrion shut his eyes. He supposed he should get some sleep. Tomorrow, he would try to seek out the Bastard of Winterfell. If the Starks have agreed to Cersei's request, they may end up coming back to King's Landing with a few more wolves than they had originally intended. Tyrion grinned sardonically.

_It seems the earthquake of courts is not quite done making a mess of things. I just hope I am still standing after it is finished, no matter how close I am to the ground. An Earthquake can topple the tallest of men, and in such a situation, it may be to one's benefit to be small. _

The Seven had a queer way of equaling the field. Tyrion hoped that whatever happened, those scornful gods would finally play in his favor. He had been playing on an unequal field for his entire life. On that thought, Tyrion found himself slipping into a dreamless slumber.


	18. ARYA II

**ARYA II**

Arya scrunched her nose as she looked at the blue screen below her. A bubbling pot hissed from the image, artificial heat rising up to her face. To the right of the image, a black box was found, filled with various foods that Arya was expected to drag into the pot. She heard a _s_plash, and then an exclamation of excitement from Septa Mordane.

"Very good, Sansa! Perfectly seasoned." She congratulated.

"_Perfectly seasoned." _Arya sneered quietly to herself as she poked at the virtual carrots on the screen. With a swipe of her finger, they fell into the pot with a dulled _plop. _There was a high pitched chime (Arya _h_ated the chime) that said she had chosen the wrong ingredient. Arya looked up, scowling, as Septa Mordane scuttled towards her.

"Arya, what did you do now .. ." She began as Sansa raised her chin and rolled her eyes. Arya stuck her tongue out at Sansa, but unfortunately, Sansa wasn't looking. Septa Mordane was. Arya felt a pinch at her cheek, and yowled in complaint.

"Arya, you _must _act more like a lady. How do you think the Queen would react if your mother, Lady Stark, stuck out her tongue in such foul fashion?" Septa Mordane asked. Arya visualized the statement, and threw a hand to her mouth as she giggled. Septa Mordane gave her another pinch, draining Arya of her mirth.

"You picked carrots when you should have chosen the chopped onions. This soup follows a very strict recipe-"

Arya leaned her head back in annoyance.

"Why do I need to learn how to cook? Those stupid robots do it anyway." She said, crossing her arms. Septa Mordane looked horrified.

"_Why _do you need to learn how to cook? Are you daft? What if your future Lord Husband wants a meal cooked by his wife, not by a cold-hearted machine? What if your future children request a nice _onion _soup that will cure them of their cold? You really must think on these things, Arya." Septa Mordane scolded. Besides Sansa, there were two other girls at the table in the medium sized school-room. Beth Cassel and Jeyne Poole. They were both of age with Sansa, and Beth had curly auburn hair and a round face with tiny pig-eyes. Jeyne Poole was a little prettier, with brown eyes and dark hair, almost as black as Arya's. She thought the two girls to be helplessly _annoying, _always chatting about squires and knights and young handsome Lords. One of them eyed Arya and laughed, causing her to push Septa Mordane's face out of hers.

"What's so funny?" Arya demanded, her hands landing heavily on the table as Septa Mordane stood with her mouth agape.

"At dinner last night the Prince said that Sansa was _beautiful._" Beth Cassel fawned as Arya's sister smiled proudly, her bright eyes beaming as perfectly combed hair fell down the sides of her face. Arya remembered the sullen-looking boy. Bran had told her that Joffery was upset because Jon had bested him, and Arya was glad. Joffery reminded Arya of a stupid-looking fish, with his fat face and grubby lips. She noticed then that he looked somewhat like Beth Cassel.

"Prince Joffery looks like a stupid little girl." Arya said, glaring at Beth as the girl returned the glare dumbly.

"Arya! You must never say such things, Joffery is to be your King!" Septa Mordane exclaimed, and Arya pushed herself away from the table.

"That's _stupid. _Jon beat him yesterday, Jon should be _King." _

All of the girls erupted in laughter, and even Septa Mordane blushed as she raised a sleeve over her mouth respectfully.

"You're _stupid. _Prince Joffery is the son of King Robert and Queen Cersei. Jon is a dumb _bastard." _Jeyne teased with a wicked grin. Arya screamed and lunged at her, only to be caught by Septa Mordane's bony arms.

"_bastard! Bastard! Jon's a bastard!" _Jeyne howled, and Beth took up the chant as well. Arya writhed in Septa Mordane's grip, wishing she could claw out Beth Cassel's fat face and then wring Jeyne's neck.

_If Nymeria were here- _

"That's enough, Jeyne. Beth." Sansa said, giving them both a freezing look. Arya stopped, and even Septa Mordane faltered when she caught sight of Sansa, who for the first time in her life, looked like a Stark with those commanding eyes. Arya was able to wriggle free of Mordane's arms, and touched down on the ground, running for the door.

"Bastard! Bastard!" Jeyne started up again, only to be halted by Sansa's voice.

"_Enough." _ She commanded, but by that time Arya was already out of the door. Septa Mordane was calling after her, but she didn't care. Nymeria had been waiting by the door, and without hesitation bolted with Arya, nipping at Arya's heels playfully. She hated Jeyne Poole and she hated Beth Cassel. Sansa was _ok, _but Arya hated how perfect she was. Arya looked like her father : Somewhat small, with thin springy arms and legs. Her face was too long, her hair too dark, and her eyes too solemn. Sansa took after their mother, whose beauty was renowned among the high courts of the Seven Kingdoms. Sometimes, Arya wished she looked like Sansa. She wished she was as good at womanly things like Sansa. Even Sansa's direwolf seemed to take after her nature, for the creature was without a doubt the most well trained out of all the pups. It was so well behaved that it was even allowed to go places in Winterfell where the other pups couldn't, trailing after Sansa with a raised snout and straight tail.

Arya slowed to a jog when she realized Septa Mordane was no longer calling for her. She found herself outside of the main hall of Winterfell, cold settling in around her. She shivered, but somehow the cold was comforting to her skin.

_Of course it is. I'm a Stark. _

Arya smiled at the thought, and walked about somewhat aimlessly, men and machines hurrying past her, and not giving her the time of day. She wondered where Jon was. She could relate to Jon. They looked the same, and they often found themselves thinking the same thing. Jon was her best friend, and it was to him that she ran to with her troubles. As she moved about, she heard a yelp coming from the direction of the training square.

_Fighting! _She spun around excitedly, forgetting about the cold as she made her way to the square. She hoped that she would be able to see Jon beat Joffery. Bran was _so _lucky that he had gotten to see it. Arya had been stuck with Septa Mordane until the feast. A small crowd was formed around the square, mostly Lannister men. Her excitement was raised as she inched around, Nymeria behind her. She passed underneath the shadow of the messhall, trying to get a better view as she heard more childish cries.

"Arya?"

Jon gave her a questioning look, and Arya turned around to find him sitting on the raised counter of the messhall, legs curled underneath him. His dark hair fell over his face, reaching the tip of his nose, so much like hers. His direwolf was curled in his lap, sleeping, white against the black of his clothing. Arya grunted as she clambered on top of the counter, and smiled with delight as she found she could see the training square. Unfortunately, Prince Joffery wasn't fighting. Oh, he was there, but he stood with a scary-looking man who wore a helmet in the fashion of a snarling dog. She saw the backs of Robb and Theon, both of them tall, strong, and wide-shouldered.

"It's not fair that boys get to fight. I'd rather fight than do dumb cooking tutorials." Arya sighed glumly as she lifted Nymeria on to the counter. Jon grinned at that, messing with her hair.

"Fighting is a little bit more tiresome than cooking."

"Yeah, but at least it's _fun." _

Bran was on the square, wearing heavy padding as he flecked aside the lazily blows from his opponent, a similarly dressed Prince Tommen. Tommen was a little older than Rickon, but was still obviously outclassed by the bigger and leaner Bran. Arya's younger brother knocked Tommen to the ground with a strike that even she saw coming, and the chubby boy giggled good-naturedly as the padding he wore caused him to roll about. Arya's opinion of the Baratheon eased somewhat. Joffery was stupid, but his younger brother seemed nice.

"Get up, Tommen! Don't let that Stark beat you!" Joffery said, cupping his hands. Tommen laughed all the louder, and Joffery frowned darkly.

"Do you want to fight me, too?" Bran asked, pointing his sword. Joffery gave Bran an ugly smile.

"If I was allowed, I could destroy you from here all the way to the moon of Dragonstone." He taunted.

"So you're still in timeout for getting beaten by Jon?" Bran retorted. Arya nudged Jon then, who jostled her back.

Joffery's face darkened even further, but then suddenly, his anger vanished.

"I guess so. At least my timeout will end. Once I leave here, I'll still be a Prince. No matter where your Jon goes, he'll always be a bastard."

With that, Joffery left with his court, all of them joking and laughing about wolves and other demeaning things.

"Joffery is stupid, Jon." Arya said. But her brother looked down into his lap.

"He's right though." He said quietly. Arya didn't know what to say, and she looked up to find Bran talking happily to Robb and Theon.

"Did you see Joffery's sigil? It was both the stag and the lion. You should do yours like that." Jon suggested.

"A wolf and a trout? That would look _s_tupid. Besides, I don't get to fight. I don't need a sigil."

"Aren't you supposed to be with the Septa?" Jon said suddenly. Arya blushed.

"I was. But . . . Sansa's dumb friends were acting like annoying _girls." _

Jon nodded knowingly.

"Beth Cassel and Jeyne Poole. Little shits." He pet Ghost with a frown. The girls didn't dare say anything to Jon's face, but if the three of them were in the same room, he was often the butt-end of their japes that would set them into furious giggling fits.

"Lady Stark will be mad." Jon warned. Arya shrugged, wind howling past her shoulders.

"I don't care. I hate Septa Mordane."

"You shouldn't say that. She's just trying to do her job. If Lady and Lord Stark aren't happy with her, she would probably have nowhere to go." Jon reflected. The statement sobered Arya somewhat, and as she was about to speak, Robb _ringed. _

Her brother brought a finger to his wrist, and pressed the communication device strapped to it. He lifted his arm to his mouth as Catelynn's voice emitted from it.

"Mother- I . . . I don't know. " He said, confused. Theon thumbed behind him, and Robb turned, looking directly at Arya.

"I see her. Yes, Mother. I will. Yes of course." Robb put his arm down and strode stiffly towards Arya. Jon sighed, sliding down from the counter.

"Good luck," He offered, shrinking away as Robb came closer.

"You do yourself no favors by skipping school." He said coolly.

"I hate school." Arya said with a frown. Robb bore into her with those freezing pale blue eyes.

"But it is your duty. Mother instructed me to escort you back to your room, Arya. She is waiting for you."

Robb helped her down from the counter, and they both waited for Nymeria as she pounced down to the ground. Robb held Arya's shoulder, ushering her away.

"You must try to do better, Arya." He said almost sadly. Arya looked down at her feet as they parted small piles of old snow.

_I can't do better. I'm Arya, not Sansa. _

Arya wished she had been born a bastard. If she had been one, like Jon, she could do anything she wanted to as long as she stayed out of the way. That was the one thing she could do better than Sansa- She knew how to _disappear_.


	19. BRAN II

**BRAN II**

Winterfell was eerily silent. Even before the King's men arrived, there had always been some commotion- Either from the training square, or at least from the kennels. But the King had gone hunting, taking most of the men with him, even Theon. Bran was left alone with the women, his sisters, and Jon. His half-brother was upset, however, no doubt because he was going to King's Landing with him and Father. Bran didn't understand why. From what he understood, King's Landing was almost like a dream- a massive city with buildings that went so high they pierced the clouds, and floating islands that contained miniature towns of their own, hovering above the vast districts, streets, and alleys of the capital. In comparison to Winterfell, which clung to the old ways, King's Landing must seem like a different world.

And Jon was _m_ad that he was going to see it. Bran shrugged his shoulders as he sat up in his bed. His direwolf rose with him, seated at the side of his mattress. Midday light shone from his window, giving his room an almost heavenly appearance. He mused that what they said about bastards being ill-tempered was somewhat true- Robb was to stay behind with Rickon and mother, yet he still composed himself. Bran supposed he shouldn't judge Jon, and sooner or later his brother would come around. He left his chambers while his direwolf marched behind him. Even in the main hallways of Winterfell, no servants were seen scurrying around like usual. Bran guessed that with the King and their Lord gone, they weren't expected to work as hard as they had been for the days the King had been here. Machines still moved about, however. They performed menial tasks- cleaning pictures, dusting banners, and polishing wood rails that aided people up formidable stone stairs. Bran never used the rails, preferring to run down the stairs much to his Lady Mother's chagrin.

He went outside, greeted by the usual cold, though it was a tad warmer than yesterday had been. The sun was shining, and for once the sky was almost cloudless. Gray ones rolled far off, almost ominous in appearance, but for now it was clear. Bran's direwolf walked ahead of him, looking back at Bran expectantly. He still hadn't thought of a name for the wolf yet. Everyone had named theirs, even Rickon, who christened his _shaggydog. _Bran exhaled softly, walking ahead as his direwolf took up flank behind. Some men wandered aimlessly, while others leaned at various buildings, arms folded as their friends sat on chairs or barrels and exchanged words, often supplanted by soft chortles of laughter. Very few Baratheon or Lannisters were seen, though Bran would notice one or two hurrying someplace, no doubt running errands for the Queen.

"Bran, is it?" A youthful voice called. Bran spun around to see the Prince standing a few feet away, while a large man wearing a dog's mask stood large, shadowing the Prince by several heads. Bran looked at Joffery with uncertainty. The Prince _tsk'd, _snapping his fingers.

"Well come here, you fool." He commanded. Bran still hesitated, while his direwolf uttered a low growl.

"_I'm bored. _And I am the Prince. You have to do what I say." Joffery looked at Bran's direwolf with shining green eyes.

"He won't bite, will he?" Joff asked, his voice shaking slightly as the dog-masked man, of which Bran knew was named the _Hound, _laughed quietly.

"Not unless I tell him." Bran answered, walking towards the Prince. Joffery smiled, folding his arms.

"Good. I command you not to tell your wolf to bite, then." Joffery looked away from Bran, and at the boring gray buildings that surrounded them.

"What do you do for fun around here?" He asked conversationally. Bran thought for a moment. There were games they could play, but they were games that Eddard had taught him, and no doubt Joffery wouldn't be able to keep up. He knew things were different in the South. Bran didn't know exactly what an _A_ndal was, but he knew it was different from the First Men, which Bran was. Eddard had told him many times that the blood of the First Men runs through his veins. He didn't exactly know what _t_hat meant, either, but all the same it filled him with a sort of ignorant pride.

"I like to climb things." Bran answered happily. Joffery's lower lip pouted slightly as wind toyed with his long blonde locks.

"Climb? I sometimes to tutorials in the v-room, where I can climb mountains from Dorne. Do you have a v-room?" Joffery inquired excitedly.

Bran didn't know what a _v-room _was, but he didn't want to look stupid in front of Joffery.

"Yes," He lied, "But I'm not allowed inside."

"I'm a Prince. I could demand to be allowed entry."

"That wouldn't be wise, My Prince. No doubt Lord Stark would be upset if you did such a thing. And then he would tell your father." The Hound's voice seemed to hum from within his life-like mask.

Joffery frowned, and focused his eyes on Bran.

"What do you climb, then?" he questioned.

"I usually like to go up on the buildings . . . here. They aren't mountains, but they are close enough, I think."

Joffery chuckled. "How would you know? Have you ever seen Dornish Mountains?"

Bran hadn't. Before he was forced to lie again, however, Joffery gave him a shrug.

"I suppose these buildings will do. Hound, you are no longer needed." He said, turning to the massive man. The Hound bowed his head, and left them in a few steps with his long legs.

"Where do you go to climb? Many of these buildings are too flat to grab a hold on." Joffery stated.

"I like to climb up on the Broken Tower. It is an old thing, hundreds of years, even! Theon told me a dragon burned the thing and no one bothered to rebuild it. It is still one of the tallest towers in Winterfell."

"Dragon's don't exist." Joffery declared dully.

"Very well, then. Let's see this Tower."

Bran led Joffery past storehouses and small cabin-like constructions, which he knew is where the autonomous machines went to refuel their energy cells. A lone hovercraft zoomed above them, breaking the silence like rock ripples water. It was quiet soon again, however, no sound aside from the panting of Bran's direwolf.

They reached the Tower in short time. It stood high above the ground, made of cobbled stone that had persisted longer than even the strongest men. Crows swarmed atop the half-sunken spiral roof, cawing as they fluttered black wings.

"I feed them sometimes, but I don't have any nuts or anything." Bran said sadly.

"You can climb all the way up _t_here?" Joffery exclaimed. Bran beamed proudly.

"I can. I do it all the time!" He said happily. Joffery rolled his eyes.

"I don't believe it. You're just showing off." Joffery stated.

"No I'm not! I can do it. I'll prove it to you." Bran moved towards the tower.

"Wait! Let's race, then." Joffery suggested.

Bran paused, looking at the stone that was inches away from his face.

"I don't think that's a good idea. I never climb up it fast . . ."

Joffrey let out an incredulous chortle.

"I didn't think you northmen were _craven._" He teased. Bran glowered, throwing his head around angrily.

"I'm not craven! I'll race you!" Bran cried, pointing at Joffery.

"Good. I'm older than you, so you can get a head start." The Prince granted. Bran didn't hesitate. His direwolf began barking wildly as he curled his hands around the notched stone, climbing up the Tower with ease. His feet found holds as he propelled himself further, legs strong for his age. His reddish hair got in his eyes, but he didn't care. He climbed higher and higher, Joffery crying behind him as the crows cawed above.

"Cheater! Cheater!" Joffery screamed. Bran paused as he looked down at the Prince, who was red-faced and panting.

"You're slow!" Bran called, turning his head back as he reached for the next block of stone . . .

Until a warm hand curled around Bran's ankle. He gasped in surprise as he turned, Joffery's face dark with rage.

"I'm the Prince, you _h_ave to let me win." He demanded. Bran shook his head, the crows above cawing as they flew from the tower in droves. The wolf barked louder and louder, snarling as it jumped about on the ground.

"No, that's not fair." Bran said, his voice filled with fear. Joffery was thirteen summers, older than Bran by three years.

"Let. Me." Joffery said between clenched teeth. He gave Bran's leg a tug, and Bran nearly lost his hold on the stone face of the tower.

"No!" Bran cried again, causing Joffery to howl in anger as he pulled Bran down with a snarl. Bran's feet tangled as his hands slapped against stone that was suddenly as flat and smooth as the walls that surrounded them. Joffery flattened himself against the Tower as Bran fell past him. Joffery turned, wide-eyed, as he watched Bran fall. Bran watched him as well, his mouth closed in disbelief. He knew he should scream, but he couldn't. No sound came from his lips, and there was nothing in the air save for the flaps of crows who flew past him, and the howls of his wolf. Bran smashed against the ground heavily, and as blood filled his mouth, he heard Joffery release a screeching cry that rung within his ears while his vision faded into the uncertain shade of black.

(A/N: Graças ao cara que deixou um comentário em português! Fico feliz que você desfrutar da história até agora. Eu fui a Portugal!)


	20. TYRION II

TYRION II

Tyrion sat at the small and round table where the rest of his family broke their fast. Foods cooked the Andal way: With electricity and molecule vibration as opposed to smoke, pans, and fire were littered about them. Slices of roast pig cut neatly into squares waited on top of silver platters, while orb-like glasses brimmed with orange-colored fruit extract mixed with fresh water. Crisp bacon teased while resting within a shallow puddle of grease, and a pan full of soft bread drizzled with honey sent waves of fresh smells towards Tyrion's nose. Tyrion sat next to Jaime, while Cersei was flanked by her children: Joffery sat to her right, while the younger ones sat on her left.

"Ah, Cersei. You look beautiful this morning." Tyrion said cheerfully, wiping his hands before picking a piece of bacon from the platter. He placed it on his plate, licking his greased finger, and then cut a generous portion of bread for himself.

"Tyrion." Cersei said. Tyrion smirked, which caused Cersei's mouth to turn in disgust. He realized that Cersei had never _greeted _him, but only acknowledged his existence when he was near her. Joffery poked at his food, eyes red and downcast. Tyrion watched him over his cup as he took a drink of juice. Sighing, he wiped his mouth and placed the cup down at the table.

"Joffery, you haven't touched your breakfast." Tyrion said softly, while Cersei narrowed her eyes.

"I-I'm not very hungry. But Mother insisted that I stay here." He said quietly. Tyrion cocked his head. This wasn't like him- Joffery was never quiet or subdued.

"Have you received word on the boy?" Jaime asked conversationally. Before Tyrion answered, he saw something spark between Joffery and Cersei. It lasted only a second, and then vanished like a hiding ghost. But it was _something. _Some truth that was being hidden.

"Had he been in King's Landing, he would have been walking in a few hours. Here, where technology is feared, the boy is near death. They had to amputate his legs to repair his spinal cord." Tyrion took another bite of bacon.

"He will live, it seems. All that needs to be done now is to graft robotic legs onto his body, and the boy may return to normal life. Though he may never father sons. The damage was too severe."

Joffery kept his eyes down, but Cersei pursed her lips.

"That is unfortunate. He will live a hard life."

Jaime chuckled. "I would rather die by the blade than carry the burden of being half-machine. A grotesque."

Tyrion took another drink of the sweet juice, draining his cup.

"Live is so full of wonders, Jaime. Whereas death offers nothing but the finality of . . . well, _being dead." _

Princess Myrcella piped up.

"I'm glad he's going to live." She stated cheerfully. Tyrion genuinely smiled at her. She had inherited all of Cersei's beauty but none of her malevolence.

"As am I. Robert was too, he hugged the doctor that attended to the Stark boy as if the man had delivered his own son."

Cersei's face hardened. Tyrion knew that the fact Robert stayed with the Starks and their boy instead of at the guest house bothered her.

"They say he was an expert climber, the boy. When he wakes up, I wonder what he'll have to say." Tyrion mused, dapping his bread in residual grease.

"I sometimes wonder who's side you're on, Tyrion." Cersei spoke between clenched teeth. Tyrion slid off from his chair, and walked halfway away from the table. Before he left them, he turned, grinning.

"You wound me, Cersei." He said, going back towards the door.

"I love my family." Tyrion was blasted by cold wind as he braced the elements of Winterfell. He was thankful he had dressed warmly before breaking his fast, and huddled in his oversized Lannister cloak while making his rounds. The Bastard boy . . . Tyrion wanted to speak with him.

"Dwarf."

The voice of the Hound brought an annoyed grin to Tyrion's face. He noticed the large man leaning (The Hound was always _leaning) _on a steel pillar that supported a small roof over a square-shaped storehouse. The Hound nearly blended in with the darkened shadowy place he watched from. As Tyrion approached, particles of snow passed, getting into his hair, eyes, and nose. He covered his mouth with a portion of his cloak, while he heard the Hound laugh deeply from within his fearsome helm.

"Hound. I'm surprised you aren't with Joffery." Tyrion said neutrally as he rubbed his cold hands together.

"The boy stays with his mother as of late. Is the wolf pup dead yet?" The Hound lowered his head, and the helmet was so lifelike that Tyrion felt as if he was talking to an actual _d_og.

"No. He will be fitted with new legs, however. As of now, he still sleeps, but his condition has improved. You did not see the fall?" Tyrion asked.

"Joffery sent me away before they went on their foolishness. Said I was no longer needed."

Tyrion chewed on that. It was possible the Hound was speaking true, as Joffery _loved _to dismiss people. It made him feel powerful. However, it could be a lie. But for what purpose? To protect Joffery? And why would Joffery need to be protected, _unless he is the one who caused the Stark boy to fall._

"Have you seen the Bastard of Winterfell?" Tyrion asked.

"He's at the training square. The boy is feral, don't know if you should meet with him. It would take a while for his eye to catch you, due to your tiny frame. Lord _Lannister."_ The Hound laughed again, and Tyrion offered him a thin smile.

"As much as I'd love to stay and hear more of your special brand of humor, I have a Bastard to catch."

Tyrion left the Hound where he was, deep rolling rumbles of laughter still audible from the man.

The Dwarf moved as quickly as he could on his short legs, noticing the disgusted looks of men as they passed. He brushed them off, smiling to himself all the while. Finally, he reached the training square, where as the Hound said, the Bastard of Winterfell was. At least, Tyrion thought it was the bastard. It was a young boy with long black hair, prancing about with a practice sword, felling combat drones left and right. The Bastard paused, and then turned around, eyes settling exactly on Tyrion's.

"_Good senses." _ Tyrion congratulated, walking towards Jon Snow. The Bastard stepped backwards as the combat drones slid back to their ports.

"You remind me of my brother. He's a member of the Kingsguard, you know. The best fighter in the land, behind some others . . . Barristan Selmy, for one. You've got skill."

The praise seemed to relax Jon somewhat.

"And I am to be his squire." The Bastard muttered quietly.

"King's Landing isn't so bad. Once you get used to the smell of ripe decay and desperation, you'll start to enjoy living there. You'll receive the best training available. Even your highborn brother couldn't talk down at the skills you'll learn. I hear you have already surpassed him."

Jon's gaze tightened.

"I've surpassed everyone my age."

_Ah, a slight touch of pride. This is surprising. _

"You've seen but one cold corner of the world. You must travel before you can say things like that."

"They say your little brother will live." Tyrion announced. Jon's face brightened.

"I- I wasn't allowed to see him . . . Catelynn . . ." Jon trailed off. Tyrion looked at the boy with true sympathy, but Jon graced Tyrion with a smile.

"He will live. That is . . . that is great news."

Tyrion shared his gladness. He didn't have any particular affection for the Stark boy, but he was young, and did not deserve death. Eddard Stark was also a good and honorable man, and Tyrion wholeheartedly did not wish him to suffer more grief. Losing a father and a brother in the fashion Lord Stark had would drive anyone insane.

"Will he walk?" Jon asked hopefully. Tyrion's smile faltered.

"Yes . . . but not on his own legs."

_A grotesque. _

"But he will live. That is good." Jon nodded at Tyrion.

"Thank you for the news. I had been trying to find out . . . but no one would speak to me." Jon rasped.

Tyrion waddled over to Jon, and awkwardly reached up and patted the bastard's upper arm.

"You're a good boy, Bastard of Winterfell."

"And you are a good Dwarf, Lannister."

Tyrion left the Bastard with no bad taste in his mouth, something that he could not say after he left his own family earlier that morning.


	21. JON V

JON IV

Jon Snow was to go to King's Landing. Before, he had hated the Lannisters, and hated his own Lord Father due to Eddard essentially selling him to the Queen. He didn't care if she had been _"impressed." _But now that feeling was meaningless. No amount of hate could change his fate.

He may be a bastard, and he may carry the surname _Snow, _but his father was a Stark. He had Stark blood within him. He didn't just live in the North- He was _of _ the North. No matter how unwelcome he had been here, it was his home.

And now he was leaving it all behind. Jon sighed as climbed up the fleet of stairs that led to Bran's chambers. He hadn't been able to speak to Bran at all, with the King and everyone else surrounding him as he slept. They knew now that he was going to live- But Jon couldn't understand why Bran had fallen. He _was_ a good climber, and Jon had seen the boy scamper up the Broken Tower plenty of times. Now Bran had legs that did not belong to him- metallic constructions in cruel mockery of actual flesh an d blood. Jon shivered at the thought.

_A grotesque. _

Still, he shook himself free of shudders and pressed the calling button outside of Bran's door. He could hear it ring from within, and was not greeted with any answer. Relieved, he stepped forward, and the door slid open . . . . to reveal his brother lying on his back, covered with thick blankets. Two "feet" pointed from underneath the covers, unnatural in shape with three pronged toes while legs that were too smoothed and long trailed down to them, similarly covered. Jon's heart sank as icy words splashed onto his face like frigid water.

"_What _are you doing here?" Catelynn said, her head rising from Bran's covers. Taken aback, Jon stepped away from the bed, mistaking Catelynn's thick hair for a blanket or pillow.

"I wanted to say goodbye to him." Jon answered, his hand hovering over Bran's body.

"Don't touch him. Get out of here. I'll call the guards." Catelynn threatened. Jon's face contorted, and he regarded her with eyes filled with silent malice.

"I _will _say goodbye to Bran." He kept his glare, until finally Catelynn looked away from him with a hiss. She looked as if she hadn't eaten in days, and her face was pallid, with maroon cheeks. She seemed deflated somehow, defeated in some horrible conflict.

"I had hoped you would wake up before I left." Jon said softly, reaching for Bran's hand. Catelynn watched him critically while he took his brother's emaciated fingers into his own.

"I'm going to King's Landing. You had wanted to go so badly . . . I will make sure to tell you all about it when you wake up. Please, don't die Bran. Everyone is waiting for you, even the Lannisters. They all wish you well."

Catelynn scoffed.

"I see you are warming to your future masters, Bastard."

Jon ignored her insult, and let down Bran's hand gently. His brother's chest rose slowly and softly, while precious snores squeezed through his lips, which were drawn in tight around his shrunken face.

"I love you, Bran." Jon smiled as a tear rolled down his youthful cheeks.

"I had wanted him to stay here." Catelynn revealed softly. Jon looked up and saw her holding Bran's hand to her breast.

"These Old Gods have a strange sense of humor." She said cynically, eyes red with grief.

"He will live. I know he will." Jon assured. Catelynn's eyes shot at him like arrows.

"And what does a Bastard know? It should have been you. It _w_ould have been you. King's Landing. A proper place for bastards." Catelynn stabbed, and Jon simply shook his head at her. Before, such words would have made him cry, but seeing Bran lie there, near death, made him stronger.

"Goodbye, Catelynn." Jon left her alone with Bran, and as the door slid shut, he heard Catelynn begin to break down in tears.

Outside of the main quarters, the yard was in disarray. Baratheon men, aided by Lannisters, loaded hovercrafts that melted the snow below them. Ships zoomed above, and a massive battlecruiser shadowed Winterfell, the sigil of House Baratheon painted on the U shaped hull. As Ghost materialized beside Jon, he stood in awe of the giant ship, mouth agape in wonder. Across from him, the wheeled Baratheon tank that transported the King and his family was being prepped, despite the fact that none of the royal family was seen.

"Jon."

The Bastard of Winterfell's eyes settled on Robb, his red hair waving in the wind while his wolf-skin cloak billowed behind him. Flecks of snow caught in the furred collar of his coat, while his hand rested on an resting blade, sleeping within its hilt.

"Uncle Benjen left earlier this morning. He told me to send his regards." Robb said neutrally. In a way, Jon liked Robb for that. He had been told by Benjen to deliver this message, and it took a certain level of maturity to be able to do such a thing, despite the fact you hated the person you were to deliver it to. Jon nodded in respect.

"Thank you, Robb."

They both stood before each other, brothers on opposite sides of the world.

"Keep them safe." Robb supplicated, his voice cracking.

"I will." Jon vowed.

Robb's blue eyes hardened.

"Not just Arya. Sansa too."

"They will not come into harm." Jon pledged, and Robb dipped his head in satisfaction. He turned away from Jon without a missed word, and vanished in the clamor of the yard. Jon had one more person to visit. Normally, Arya would be in the main chambers . . . but she had been punished for skipping Septa Mordane's class, and thus was given a small dwelling that was beside the now empty guest house. With Ghost in tow, Jon quickly made his way to the tiny circular one-room building that was Arya's punishment. At the door, he found a security drone standing, guarding the entrance.

"I need to speak to Arya." Jon said to the machine. Its servos whirred as it turned a shiny silver head, while red eyes flickered.

"You may enter." It said with an echoing monotone. The robot stepped aside, and Jon ducked as he entered the small hovel. Inside, Arya sat atop a plain bed, while her direwolf, Nymeria, darted towards Ghost. The two pups began playing, yipping as they softly bit at each other's ears.

"Jon! They aren't leaving, are they?!" Arya squealed as she rushed up to him, giving him a wide hug. Jon pushed her away softly, grinning down at her beaming face.

"Father must have authorized my facial structure along with his own. That's why I was able to get in." He realized, thanking Eddard for that boon.

"No, not yet. Where are your things?" Jon asked, looking around the barren room.

"Mother says they are taken care off. She won't even let me see the ships!" Arya protested.

"You'll see plenty soon enough . . . I saw Bran."

Arya's frown vanished, and was replaced with watery eyes.

"How was he?" She said with a sad sigh.

"Sleeping still. Catelynn was in there with him."

Jon remembered the hate in her eyes, the absolute disgust written over Catelynn's face.

"Was she nice?" Arya queried.

"Yes, she was." Jon lied, before pulling a long box that was strapped to his back free.

"Robb told me to protect you. And I will. You and Sansa will always be safe around me. But King's Landing is dangerous . . . if you're ever alone, you have to be strong." Jon said, putting the box down at Arya's feet atop of her bed. She gave him a questioning look, and began to unwrap the present. With wide eyes, she lifted a small thin-bladed sword out of the cushioned interior of the box.

"A blade." She marveled.

"Retractable as well. Like the new ones." Jon added. Arya found the button on the hilt, and pressed it. In half a second, the point retreated into the sword's handle.

"Don't tell anyone . . . _especially Sansa. _I don't want Mikken getting in trouble for making this." Jon said as Arya called the sharp blade out from the hilt. She waved it about excitedly, before nearly impaling him when she lurched forward, giving him another hug.

"All swords need a name." Jon stated. Arya released herself from him, stepping down from her bed.

"A name?"

"Yes. A name for something or someone you want to protect. Something you never want to forget."

The Bastard of WInterfell looked at Arya as she bit her lip. Finally, her eyes widened as she gave him a toothy smile.

"_Jon. Its name is Jon." _She said as her mouth was muffled by Jon's chest, locking him in another hug.

_I will keep Arya safe, Robb. And Sansa too. If I don't, then what good am I? What is the purpose of a man if he cannot protect ones who love him as much as this? _


	22. Viserys II

VISERYS II

Viserys Targaryen, the true heir to the rightfully Targaryen throne of Westeros found himself surrounded by dusky-skinned savages and horeshit as opposed to the shining halls of Westerosi castles. He pouted as his tired warmachine sputtered ahead, spitting up black smoke and filling his nostrils with the stench of oil. His once-fine clothing was covered with black exhaust stains, and his underarms were slick with hot sticky sweat. Silver hair, so perfectly maintained at Illyiro's mansion, was now in a disarray, dry and coarse, bleached by the burning sun of the Dothraki Sea. He rode behind Daenerys, who seemed to be quickly forgetting that she was _his _sister before she became Khal Drogo's whore. He swallowed hard as the Khalasar inched past a boring and unchanging environment. Flat land unfurled for as far as the eye could see, wasted as tall grass grew defiantly, waving in the wind, proud and undisturbed. The land could be so much more, if the Dothraki weren't mindless mud-peoples. He grew to despise them every passing day- They would give him contemptuous glances, and often he would find that some of the men would chuckle at him. He didn't understand their guttural tongue, but Viserys knew when a man was mocking him. Often, he had been reminded of Illyrio's warning to stay at the mansion, but Viserys had refused. Viserys had forfeited his sister to the Khal, and the beast had enjoyed parts of her that belonged to _Viserys _ by right and by birth. It still shamed him that Daenerys had been forced to lie with a creature of lesser creation that she, but it was all for a grand cause. To regain their throne.

But Viserys was sitting upon a warmachine, in the Dothraki Sea as opposed to the grand rolling hills of Westeros.

"I was promised an army." Viserys hissed to no one in particular. A Dothraki riding near him gave him a quizzical glance, and then rode off ahead in a plume of black smoke. It stung at his purple pupils, and he swore as water began to well underneath his bottom eyelids, and then drip down his hot face. Viserys grimaced as he wiped his eyes with a sodden sleeve that was once white, and was now brown. He coughed as Jorah looked back at him. Viserys had employed the man after the wedding of Khal Drogo and Daenerys, but Jorah Mormont had been at Daenerys' side more so than Viserys'. That made his anger grow, and he knew that the dragon would soon awaken within him. But what could he do? Before, when it had just been him and Daenerys, he was the one who was in control. He was the one with power. But now . . . Daenerys was already a Khaleesi, wife of the Khal. He wasn't sure that the savages truly respected her, but the fact that she was the property of their leader seemed to make them sure to treat her well, as to not anger the Khal.

"You should have stayed in Pentos, my Prince. You look hot." Jorah slowed his warmachine down as Daenerys rode ahead to the top of a high hill. Viserys glared at the man through a veil of ratty white hair, cracked lips pulled back contemptuously as he spat.

"I will see that Khal Drogo gives me my army." Viserys growled, curling his fingers around the controls of his mount.

"Also, I am a Targaryen. Heat means nothing to me." The exiled Prince regarded Jorah with contempt as the knight himself looked at Viserys, eyeing the various sweat stains and Viserys' dry skin.

"As you say, My Prince." Jorah bowed his head, and then sped up to where Daenerys was sitting. The lagging Khalasar was somewhat far behind, and Viserys spat again, revving up his warmachine to climb the steep hill that his sister found so enthralling.

"It's beautiful." Daenerys said as she looked down at the land below. Thick shots of grass rose above the brown and green ground, while the sun sat low on the ground, shining brilliantly. Surprisingly, small ships darted about in the high atmosphere, nothing but burning blue stars moving fast across a sea of azure.

"Jorah, tell the _Khalasar _to wait behind. I want to see this land alone. Viserys, stay with Jorah."

Daenerys rode ahead of them, down into the valley below. As Jorah turned to speak with the advancing Khalasar, Viserys zoomed ahead, air parting his long hair as he roared.

_The audacity! _

He increased his speed, and the land blended together in a rush of green beneath his feet. He followed her into the tall grass, finding her empty warmachine sputtering idly. He jumped from his mount, and nearly tripped on the tangled ground as Daenerys appeared from between the tall grass stalks.

"Viserys!" She exclaimed excitedly as he clawed at the ground, climbing to his feet. He lowered his head as he glowered at her, and she stepped backwards, hands rising.

"You dare _command _me? DO you know who I _AM?_" He bellowed as she backed further into the tall grass. She eyed him warily, and began to shake.

"I am PRINCE Viserys Targaryen, third of MY name, rightful King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and PROTECER OF THE EXPANSE!"

Daenerys fell to her feet, tears streaming from her eyes. Viserys smiled vengefully. This is what he needed. This is how it should be. Daenerys _belonged _to him. She was his property, his duty. He _l_oved her, but he had to give her to the savages, he _h_ad to so he would regain their Throne . . . so that she could go home . . . Viserys cupped her cheek within his hand, her tears giving his dried hands moisture. She looked up at him with wide eyes . . . and Viserys slapped her. She fell over on her side, and when she rose, blood dripped from an opened lip.

Viserys looked at his hand, and then walked towards his fallen sister. He didn't know why he was doing this. He had to do this. It was his duty. Everyone . . . His father . . . his mother . . . Rhaegar . . . they were all dead. He had to make her pure again. He had to make himself _pure. _

_Targaryen. _

_Targaryen. _

He groped at Daenerys as she writhed on the ground, her subdued whimpers increasing into a ululating scream. Viserys frowned and struck her again and again, but she would not stop yelling. He grabbed her by the sides, pulling her closer and then cupping her breasts in his hand. She screamed louder, and he felt himself. He felt what he had become. He wanted to vomit . . .

_I must make her pure. She must become a true Targaryen. That Savage had her first . . . My sister. My little Daenerys. I love her. I love her. _

A thin metal cord wrapped around Visery's neck, and he fell backward as he was pulled away from Daenerys. Warmachines hummed all around him, and Viserys craned his neck to see a Dothraki savage looming over his head, the beast's warmachine spitting smoke into his face, reddening his eyes. The cord came from the Dothraki's gauntlet, and the creature wore a bandaged mask that concealed his countenance.

The Dothraki pressed a button, and the cord grew tighter, until he could barely breath. He clawed at the cord, but it would not lessen its grip. He kicked at the ground, throwing up dirt as tears poured down his cheeks. The Dothraki said something in its dog-speech, and a similarly colored woman scurried past, helping Daenerys to her feet.

"He asks if you want the pale one to suffer for his crime." The woman asked Daenerys.

She regarded Viserys with distant eyes. Viserys tried to speak, but he could not as the cord pushed his tongue high into his mouth.

"No. But take his warmachine. He will walk. The Dothraki shrugged as the metal cord retreated back into his wrist gauntlet. Jorah appeared from the outside then, hand on his blade. Viserys jumped to his feet, pointing at Daenerys.

"Kill her! KILL HER!" He screamed, tears falling freely as he gibbered. Jorah looked at Viserys, and then Daenerys. He slowly shook his head, eyes filled with pity. A Dothraki held him back as Daenerys left with her allies, and then strapped Viserys' warmachine to his own. The Dothraki left Viserys alone then without another glance. Viserys screamed as he threw himself to the ground, ripping grass and dirt from the earth, throwing it about him. He screamed and screamed until his throat was raw, and then he realized how thirsty he was. Viserys looked about shamefully, and then walked ahead, nipping at the heels of the advancing Khalasar as they left a cloud of thick ebony smoke in the air.


	23. EDDARD III

EDDARD III

The sound of Andal machines woke Eddard far before Robert did. None the less, Eddard robed himself, the sigil of House Stark proudly displayed on his chest. His makeshift chamber was nothing but four walls, a roof, and a bed. Leather boots steeped onto the green grass that swam about the snaking Kingsroad, and when he opened the port of his chamber, the sound of hovercrafts and ships were no longer muffled, Eddard's hair blowing behind his neck as he was greeted by a thin man wearing Baratheon colors.

"His Grace requests that you ride with him." The man said in a sing-song voice. Eddard raised his eyebrow as he glanced over the shoulder of the messenger, and saw King Robert Baratheon astride a thick horse corded with muscle, strength that was required to carry Robert's girth. Beside the King, an empty horse waited, out of place amid the buzzing and clicking of machines and the low-hum of stationary hover vehicles. Men went about various duties, laser rifles leaning on their shoulders while uniformed captains walked briskly, dressed in black and yellow colors with high ebony boots, a small pistol clipped to their shining belts. All in all, despite the fact that Eddard was not in the true South yet, he felt out of place. This world was one he had known briefly during the rebellion, and one he had been quick to forget. Technology belonged to the Andals, not to the First Men.

"Robert, if you need to speak, why not come within my quarters?" Eddard motioned behind him, and as if on command, the door to his met-room slid open with a silent _hiss. _

"No, Eddard. We must _Ride. _It has been to long for me. I'm always stuck in those damnable hovering crypts. I want to feel the wind in my hair again, not artificial air choking my lungs. Come, _Come, _your King demands it."

And so Eddard, a man bound by honor to a fault, climbed into the saddle of the waiting horse beside Robert. His Grace took off without warning, forcing Eddard to follow. They kicked up slick dirt as they rode, men narrowly jumping out of the way while Robert led the charge. Overhead, the gigantic battle cruiser _Steffon _hung low in the atmosphere, single-pilot fighters like flies compared to its size. The ship cast the land it was covering in a premature night, blocking off all light from the sun above.

"Just like old times!" Robert roared as his horse dug into the ground. Eddard did allow a small smile to touch his lips. He remembered times like these- when it was just him and Robert. Before the complications of war and alliances, before the brutal game of thrones. They were just two boys, one serious but well meaning, one mischievous and full of unquenchable energy. Now they were both men, with wives and children of their own, while death loomed on both of their families. This was the type of life they lead, a life neither of them could have predicted. The thought of Bran's fall troubled Ned then, and the thought of Bran, poor little Bran, with mechanical legs almost destroyed his mirth. He would walk again . . . but the doctor was clear. There was little hope that Bran would ever father sons. And with his new limbs, he was no longer a boy.

_He was a grotesque. _

Robert stopped as the sun set in the distance. For the first time that day, real sunlight touched Eddard's face, however weak it was as it fell into the horizon. It was warm, but not uncomfortably so, as Robert's horse let out an exhausted whinny. Red faced, Robert grinned toothily at Eddard.

"I feel like a boy again, Ned . . . the damnable party is dragged down by retainers, glory-seeking knights, and that _fucking_ cruiser." Robert gave a vulgar motion to the looming ship in behind them, a literal island in the sky.

"We are no longer boys, Robert. That life is in the past." Eddard stated respectfully. Robert swore and shook his head.

"You were never a boy, Ned. Always so damn cold and stoic. How you became my friend is a question only the Seven can answer." Robert shifted in his saddle.

"Your Bastard seems to be taking the road badly." Robert said with a grin. Jon had not warmed to anyone, let alone the Lannisters. He was to ride with them, and Eddard had been told that he refused to speak to anyone.

"He is of the North. He will come around. He always does." Eddard assured, and Robert shrugged.

"If he's anything like you, that might take a long time . . . but enough of this. I have grim news."

Eddard gave Robert a questioning look.

"I have received news from Varys . . . the Targaryen bitch lives."

"What else?" Eddard pursued.

"She has married a Dothraki warlord." Robert grumbled, holding his reigns tight.

"How have you come to know this?" Eddard asked, and Robert looked away from him.

"A man . . . Jorah Mormont."

Jorah. Eddard had exiled him due to the man selling slaves, and now it seems he has found work for the crown. But regardless of this, the wedding did not concern Eddard. It seemed to him that the girl was simply starting anew, and even if she did plan to invade, there was no way the superstitious Dothraki would cross the black expanse of space to attack Westeros on the whims of a young girl.

"I want her assassinated." Robert said brusquely.

"Because she poses a threat, or due to the fact you hate Targaryens?" Eddard inquired.

Robert ground his teeth but was otherwise silent for some time. Finally, he looked up to Eddard with red eyes.

"They stole everything from me, Ned. _Everything. _I thought they had all been killed. But this one escaped my grasp."

Eddard remembered the day Elia and her children died. He then remembered the Tower of Joy . . . and now, he saw Robert's hatred of anyone with Targaryen blood. His own anger rose then, anger directed towards Robert, but he quickly brushed it away.

"You cannot kill an innocent girl."

"She will spawn more dragons and they and their sons will attack. They have 10,000 Dothraki warriors, Edd. That is something to fear. Not to mention that Dorne and even the Reach would quickly join banners with a resurrected Targaryen House."

"If you truly fear them, you should anoint a new man to the position of Warden of the East. Robert is Jon's son, a boy carrying your namesake-"

"I cannot name him, Eddard. The boy is sickly, and I fear that his mind is feeble. In light of this news, I need someone strong."

Eddard quickly connected the dots.

"You have decided Jaime Lannister inherit the title." He said quietly, remembering Lysa's warning.

"Jaime already lays claim to his father's title. Naming him Warden of the East and West would give him control of more than half of the armies of the Kingdom. Infantry, battleships, everything."

"You should not trust him." Eddard gasped after a long silence.

"Why should I not? He is my wife's brother." Robert retorted.

"He is also a _Lannister. _Have you forgotten how Lannister cruisers bombed King's Landing, while they were flying Targaryen banners? Or how Jaime slew King Aerys while he wore the cloak of the Kingsuard?"

"Enough, Ned. I do not like the Lannisters any more than you do, but it is sound. We need someone strong to protect us from the Targaryen threat."

_But what if a threat comes from the inside? It would be no hard task for Jaime to rise in revolt against Robert. He had killed a man he swore to protect before. _ Robert began to ride back to the main party. Eddard did as well, wishing he was back at Winterfell with his wife and sickly Bran. But of course, he was a creature of honor, and he followed Robert, his ruler and his friend, to wherever dark paths he would lead them.

To death and beyond death. As such was the life of a pawn in the game of thrones.


	24. Jon VI

JON VI

The Baratheon tank rolled on. Jon sulked in his seat, cross buckles trapping him in place. He twiddled his thumbs, listening as the six-wheeled behemoth crushed the King's Road. Sansa and Arya rode with the queen in her own vehicle, Father and Robert had taken to riding horses before the entire party, while Prince Joffery and his siblings were divided among different mounts. Only Jon and the dwarf Lannister and his own brother, Jaime, were found within the Baratheon tank.

_I miss ghost. _The direwolf had been pinned in its own cage in one of the many mobile kennels, as the other dogs would not allow it to stay around them. It was strange having Ghost separated from himself for so long, and Jon felt that it would only get worse once they reached King's Landing. The place was an Andal metropolis, and they would no doubt be afraid of Jon's direwolf. The Lannisters in the tank with him were quiet. The dwarf called Tyrion hummed a tune to himself, while Jaime sat, his head reclined on the wall of the vehicle, his eyes closed.

"What do you think of us so far, Snow?" Tyrion started conversationally. Jon narrowed his eyes. Often when Tyrion spoke to him, he felt that the dwarf was gauging his intellect. After every statement Jon made, Tyrion would often give a sly smile, making Jon feel like he had lost some battle with words. Jon was not vapid, but he did not have experience with talking to people. Very few souls spoke to him in Winterfell, so not to draw out Catelynn's wroth. The thought of her filled Jon with dulled rage, but then the sight of Bran's gaunt face sobered him. Jon was glad he was alive, but what kind of life would Bran live?

_He is a grotesque now. Worse than a dwarf. _

Jon was drawn back into the Lannister's world, so far away from Bran.

"It is impressive. I . . . I have never ridden in anything like this. Father does not like technology." Jon said carefully.

"I can see that much. They say Eddard Stark rides horses with the King. I myself don't have time for horses. They stink, and they're stupid beasts. I feel much more comfortable with an automated mount that would jolt or grow fearful. A warmachine, Snow. That's a real mount." Tyrion said as he held his hands behind his head. The dwarf did not bother to strap himself in, and now that Jon noticed, Jaime had neglected to do so as well. The fact that he was the only one wearing the cumbersome seat-lock made him feel all the more the child.

"A warmachine also lags in the cold. I've heard that while it hovers, it cannot pass through heavy snow. I would rather a horse, Lord Lannister. You just need to find the right kind of horse. There are smart ones." Jon reflected on his own steed, back in Winterfell. He wondered if Catelynn would kill it, simply out of spite.

"The lad has a point. Warmachines are practical in the south. Up north, that's a different matter. I can't imagine they have many on The Wall." Jaime quipped. Eyes still closed, Jon was amazed that the Kingsguard was not asleep.

The van descended into silence again, and Jon shifted uncomfortably. He watched the dwarf as the tiny man slowly produced a datadisk from his pocket, watching as a red page materialized before Tyrion's face. Jon saw the words mirrored on Tyrion's face, but was unable to read any of it. Tyrion had done this on a number of different occasions, and Jon had not seen anyone read as much as this dwarf had.

"Why do you read so much?" Jon blurted suddenly. As Tyrion leveled his mismatched eyes on Jon, the Bastard immediately regretted the question.

"Why do I read, you ask?" Tyrion said, repeating Jon Snow's question.

"Jaime, why do you train with the blade?" Tyrion asked his brother.

"To stay powerful. To remain quick. In battle, it is often the ones who train the most that survive." Jaime said, eyes still shut.

"And I read to keep my wits. When you're a dwarf, fighting is not a viable option. I read to sharpen my _mind, _Young Snow. You would do well to copy my lead. Especially in King's Landing." Tyrion suggested. Jon wrinkled his nose at the dwarf.

"Why? What good would that do me?" Jon inquired. Tyrion gave him a patient smile, grossly formed on his misshapen face.

"_Because _you will be at an immediate disadvantage at King's Landing. Just because you will be a Lannister squire, does not mean you will not be targeted to be taken advantage of. You could find yourself in a bad place if you simply . . . _stagnate. _Reading will keep your brain awake, keep your eyes focused, and maintain your spirit. Fighting is a good skill, something that happens to be a natural talent for you. It's funny, I do not remember Eddard Stark being a skilled warrior. I wonder who your mother was, for you to inherit that affinity for the blade."

Jon was silent as Tyrion yawned, reaching into his pocket again.

"With a sharp blade and a sharper mind, you'll be nearly invincible." Tyrion said as he pulled a datadisk from his side, and tossed it at Jon. The boy caught it, pressing the center as a red sheet burst into existence before him.

"You _can_ read, can't you?" Tyrion asked. Jon nodded, eyeing the words before him carefully.

"Dragons?" Jon asked. The datadisk Tyrion gave him so far spoke of the dragons that belonged to the Targaryens. Andals brought advanced technology with them to Westeros, and Targaryens brought even stranger technology _and_ dragons from the planet of Essos. It was the reason they were able to conquer so much land so quickly.

"Dragons," Tyrion said with a smile, "Are the past. Which means dragons are intermingled with history. Reading the past gives us great insight."

"Why?" Jon asked, hating himself for sounding like such a child.

"With historical records, we can predict the future. Times change, but situations still linger. War, political intrigue, assassination . . . all of these things are repeated time and time again. By _reading _about them, you will be able to see patterns of their existence in your own lifetime, and from reading what people in the past did or _didn't _do, you'll find the solution to problems that you will face either now, or sometime in the future."

Jon looked at the datadisk with renewed interest. It seemed to chronicle the battle of Loren the first, an ancestor of the Lannisters. Jon read about how he almost defeated the Targaryens, with the help of King Mern IX.

The battle was lost, however, when Aegon took to the sky with his dragons. Metal rifles and robotic conscripts were made short work in what was later called the Field of Fire. Mern was defeated, and Loren swore fealty to the Targaryens.

"I see something." Jon said, deactivating the datadisk.

"And what is that, Snow?" Tyrion pursued.

"The Lannisters survived not because of their prowess in battle or their riches. They survived because they knew when the battle was lost. Swearing fealty to the Targaryens as opposed to stubbornly fighting a war that could not be won. Bending the knee secured their future."

"Very good, Snow. You are right. Many noble houses perished in the conquest of Westeros, simply because they did not bow. Honor means little and less when you are being feasted upon by crows." Tyrion said with a smirk.

"It seems Loren's descendants equaled the field." Jon added. Tyrion lifted his eyebrow.

"It was the Lannisters who dealt the Targaryens the final blow."

Jaime opened his eyes then, and regarded Jon with a lazy stare.

"Then you would do well to add this to your analysis: Lannisters cannot be beaten. If you remember that one simple fact, you will do well in King's Landing."

Jon nodded solemnly, wondering what the implication of Jaime Lannister's words would mean in the future. The Seven Kingdoms may be united, but Jon knew in reality that unification was something that existed only on treaties and letters. In real life, they were as divided as they have always been, and always will be.


	25. Catelynn III

CATELYNN III

Lady Catelynn Stark of Winterfell loved her children dearly. With blood and pain she brought them into the world. Beautiful, red faced and screaming things, until they were brought to her waiting teat. But she was ashamed to admit she loved Bran the most out of all that have come from her. His labor had been the hardest, nearly nineteen hours long, a torturous ordeal that cost her much blood. She could see it now- Lying on the birthbed, her own blood pooling around her waist and back. Doctors scurried around her while Eddard held her hand, his eyes closed and his face pale. But then she heard the squalling call of a child.

She had said his name then, gasping as sweat covered her eyes. Bran was washed and given to her, the baby boy whimpering as she held him. His eyes were shut closed, while dark red wisps of hair circled a soft head. She remembered forgetting all of the pain when Eddard placed a hand on his newly born son's head, a wide smile crossing his face.

"Brandon Stark." He had beamed, his voice echoing in her memory. Maester Luwin rushed about her, injecting her with various solutions while trying to stop the bleeding. Despite all that, Catelynn did not feel bothered- She had her baby boy, a trueborn son. Brandon Stark.

And now, Bran was on his deathbed. Catelynn shuddered in anger as she lifted bloodshot eyes to look at her son. His face was gaunt and swollen- Cheekbones, _Tully _cheekbones that heralded his soon-to-come handsomeness now gave him the appearance of a decaying skull. His skin was ashen, and a frail chest slowly rose and fell with each precious breath. On his arm, a tube was fit underneath his skin, life-saving formula continually being fed into him.

Outside, a wolf cried.

Catelynn ran her hands through Bran's hair, that beautiful dark red hair of his, wishing she could see the shine of his eyes for one last time. Eddard was gone, away with that philandering king, while his son laid on the precipice of death. Catelynn remembered a less-than-savory happening, saw how that after they were married, Eddard had refused to lie down with her, choosing instead to go and fight Robert's Rebellion. Their marriage had been arranged shortly after he had been able to retreat back to Winterfell, the deaths of his father and brother still fresh in his mind. Catelynn had been reassured by many of Eddard's love for her- But then he had returned with a disgusting whelp that he insisted on raising himself. It was that lapse of honor that caused Catelynn to feel a slight bitterness towards her Lord Husband, the same bitterness that afflicted her when he first rode off to war. She rejected the thought then, remembering what that emotion had caused her to do. Shame took her then, feelings of regret mixed with anger, and even guilt as she thought of her cruelty towards Jon.

"Mother."

Catelynn jumped at the sound of Robb's voice. She let out a haggard sigh as she turned to face him. He stood tall, with wavy red hair like hers and a strong jaw. High cheekbones completed his face, while ice-blue eyes gave him a chilling demeanor.

"Robb . . . I did not hear you come in." Catelynn spoke to her son, but her eyes and her heart were for Bran. Robb stepped forward on loud boots, causing Catelynn to wince every time the sound crashed against her ears.

"We need you, Mother. The expense reports have come in and-"

"I don't _care_ about that, you _fool!" _Catelynn screamed, pointing a finger at Robb as if it was a primed eletcrobolt ready to be fired. Robb simply looked at her, his eyes unreadable. Catelynn caught her breath, slumping down on her knees while her chin rested on Bran's bedside.

"I'm sorry . . . I . . . " She stammered. Robb put his hand on her shoulder.

"Bran will love, Mother. Maester Luwin says so." He assured.

"But what kind of life? He will walk, but not with his own legs. Nerve damage tells us that it will be neigh impossible for him to ever father sons. He always wanted to be a Knight . . . but what man would squire a _grotesque?" _ Catelynn's lip quivered. Grotesques were men that had robotic limbs. Usually arms or hands, and were seen as unfit warriors. It was said that it would be better to learn how to fight with your new disabilities, as opposed to having lost parts replaced. Bran never had that choice- due to the nature of his fall, his spinal cord had to be re-aligned with organic bonding metals. If that had not been done, it was very possible that his skewed bones would puncture an organ while he slept.

"He will find a way. You must have faith, Mother. But you must also perform your duties as Lady Stark. Rickon follows me around, sobbing and asking why everyone has left. I need you, Mother. With you gone, everyone looks to me . . . but I do not have all the answers. I don't-" Robb looked away as tears began to pool over his eyes. Catelynn felt shamed then, realizing what he was saying. Robb and Rickon were hers too, and she had been neglecting them.

Outside, the direwolves grew louder.

"Damn those wolves." Catelynn spat.

"I think they help Bran-" Robb was cut off as a thundering rumble shook them. His eyes instantly widened as he ran towards the window. From behind his body, Catelynn could see a rising stream of smoke from across Winterfell.

"The purification plant." Robb said breathlessly as he ran from the room. Just outside the door, he turned and nodded at his mother.

"Stay safe." He said, before disappearing behind a wall of plaster.

Shouts rang out across Winterfell while men ran about below them. Catelynn held Bran close, his sweet breath tickling her nose. She smiled warmly as she remembered how he had loved to exhale his breath in her face when he was a toddler, giggling as she smiled and tickled him in retaliation.

But then the door opened.

"Robb, what has-" Catelynn saw a man who was not her son. He was filthy, and the stink he carried instantly filled the room in a vile aroma.

"Are you from the stables?" Catelynn asked as she saw the knife that the man carried.

"You weren't supposed to be here." He said, stepping forward.

"No, please." Catelynn begged. The man jumped forward, his dagger primed at Bran's exposed throat.

"NO!" Catelynn screamed, catching the man's wrists as he swore at her. He kneed her in the stomach, and the wrestled her to the floor. Freeing himself from her grip, he raised the dagger over her face, jabbing it at her eyes. She screamed as she struggled, the point of the weapon inches away from her face. She felt the man's weight crushing her. His musk choked her. She could feel her strength ebbing away.

_This is the end. _

A low growl stopped the man in his tracks. He turned around, only to be thrown off of Catelynn's body, and to the floor beside him. He yelled wordlessly while Bran's direwolf ripped out the assassin's throat, Catelynn watching in horror as the creature's teeth pulled away from the man's neck, covered in blood and flesh.

"Mother!" Robb called as he rushed into the room with numerous guards.

"the explosion was superficial. We heard screams-" Robb trailed off as his eyes caught sight of the bleeding body on the floor.

"Bran did not fall." She said with steel tones.

"How did he get in? this room was protected by code." Robb rasped as Bran's direwolf curled onto his younger brother's bed.

"Aside from our family and Maester Luwin, there is only one man who knew the code."

"Robert Baratheon." Robb said slowly.

"But why would he-"

"No, Robert didn't do it. He doesn't have the patience for such things. He loved Bran as much as you or I. However . . . "

"The Lannisters." Robb looked up at his mother.

"Bran must have done something that day that they didn't want him to. And that nearly cost him his life. But my question is what . . . what could he have been doing that made them wish to kill an innocent boy?" Catelynn asked.

"I know he was playing with Joffery." Robb reflected.

"We must pray to the gods both old and new that your father and your sisters will be safe in King's Landing." Catelynn bowed her head as men collected the body, leaving the smell behind them as they shuffled past.


	26. SANSA

**SANSA**

The food at the inn was not as good as the meals she had enjoyed at Winterfell, but the innkeeper _had_ tried his best. She lunched on a tomato soup with a side of bread, while her main meal was made of roasted chicken drizzled with lemon juice. She ate happily enough. It was a nice day outside, and the climate was warm as opposed to the cold of her home. The only thing that bothered her was the laborious speed at which they were going. She had assumed that some amazing Andal ship would ferry them to King's Landing. There _was_ a ship, but the U shaped behemoth did not take advantage of the massive exhaust ports that could get them halfway across the world in a matter of minutes.

Instead, they moved slowly as the King's court marched down the Kingsroad. Her father and Robert would take their horses, staying behind or riding ahead as they pleased. Sansa ripped a piece of her chicken and offered it to her direwolf, Lady, under the table.

"Sansa!" Septa Mordane scolded. As if on call, Lady padded from underneath the table, eyes wide and innocent as she panted happily.

"Septa, Lady is hungry and she has been _so _good today. She deserves a little meat." Sansa batted her eyes at the Septa, who in turn smiled slightly.

"When it comes to your wolf, you are as stubborn as Arya." Mordane said with a sigh. She herself ate a simple onion soup. The inn was empty save for them, while the innkeeper waited patiently on their every whim behind the counter.

"I do not need to remind my young lady that Queen Cersei has invited you and your sister to ride in the wheelhouse?"

Sansa did not need to be reminded. The _wheelhouse _was similar to Robert's Baratheon tank, but with elegance taking precedence over military might. It had the appearance of a giant orb covered with steel plating, while a centralized wheel covered the sideways circumference of the orb. Inside the circle fresh drinks, air cooling, and other high-born pleasures awaited. What's more is that Joffery had taken to riding with his mother. Cersei had said that Myrcella wanted to speak with Sansa; and while that may or may not be true, Sansa knew that she was to be wed to Joffery. Today would be her first chance to truly talk with the prince. She had adored him from afar: The brightness of his eyes, the perfect cut of his dimples, the highness of his cheekbones, and the fullness of his lips. His hair was of beaten gold, the color of the rising sun.

And Arya could muck it up, like she always does. Sansa's eyes sharpened as she realized she had to find Arya and speak with her before they were sent to Cersei.

"Excuse me, Septa, but I must retrieve my sister. You know how unruly she is." Sansa nodded towards Mordane.

"Thank you for eating with me." She said politely, before pushing herself away from the table. She wore a fine spring dress that left a portion of her ankles visible. On her feet she was garbed in fine slippers that were resistant to mud and water. Outside of the inn, the Trident could be heard easily enough. Sansa knew her history- this was where Robert killed Rhaegar Targaryen. Sansa could only wonder at how marvelous that must have been- to see two men fighting with honor for what they each believed to be justice. Rhaegar had always been described to Sansa as evil, but what she read about him did not seem so. She knew he was a quiet man, who enjoyed music and spending time alone. She mused that he must have been stricken by a fit Targaryen madness, which Mordane told her sprung from the fact that they laid with their own kin. It was the only reason Sansa could find to answer the question as to why peaceable Rhaegar would kidnap Lyanna and then kill her.

Sansa trailed around the inn, hearing the loud hum of the Baratheon cruiser that hung in the air far away, above the trailing river. She danced between green trees and prickly bushes, Lady hopping behind her. Homes lined the river: Meager dwellings made of wood and stone. Commonfolk fished white others drank on precarious-looking self-made piers, soft water pressing against thin stakes of wood. She walked along the Trident, the water growing less and less tall as she walked up-river. Soon she could easily see the pebbles that wavered underneath the watery magnifying glass that covered them, partially hidden by the shining reflection given off by the sun, basking them in a white sheen. Butterflies danced above the water, and Sansa swore she saw a rabbit across the river that dashed away once Lady caught sight of it. Everything was beautiful today, and she would not allow Arya to tear things asunder.

"Don't _move_, Nymeria. You'll only make it worse."

_Arya! _

The sound came from outside a fence of vegetation that was flanked by two large trees, on the banks of the Trident. Sansa walked around the foliage, and found Arya brushing mud out of Nymeria's fur. The direwolf growled as Arya pulled hair away roughly.

"It would be easier if you simply washed her _in_ the water." Sansa offered.

Arya made a face, and ignored her.

Sansa wrung small hands together as she looked at Arya. She was a mess: Dirt covered her clothing while her hair was uncombed, looking almost like Nymeria's fur.

"Cersei has invited us to ride in her wheelhouse." Sansa offered. Arya made a face.

"I don't care about that. I'm going searching for rubies with Mycah. This is where Rhaegar died. Mycah's father says that he wore a chest plate made of rubies, and that millions of them fell into the river! There must still be some out here."

"It _wasn't _millions. All of those rubies are gone, don't be dumb." Sansa scowled.

"Oh, _that's _going to make me want to ride in the wheelhouse." Arya retorted.

Sansa panicked; if Arya refused the queen, Cersei might be so incensed that she would not allow Sansa to go as well. She wouldn't be able to talk to Joffery . . .

"There will be food. Sweetcakes dipped in lemon . . . drinks made from the fruits on the Summer Islands. Candymeats no doubt." Sansa tempted. Arya simply shrugged.

"Mycah's father is making us syrup-cakes in his fire oven. Those are better than anything Cersei has. I can bring you one, if you want." Arya flashed Sansa a devilish grin.

"Arya you ruin _everything!_ You are going to make me look _so _foolish if you do not accompany me!"

Sansa's sister returned her attention to Nymeria.

"Cersei won't let you take Lady anyway." Arya taunted. Sansa wished to yell _so _badly, wanted to walk over to Arya and strike her . . . but she controlled herself. She exhaled deeply, and straightened up.

"As you wish." She said quietly. Arya looked at her sadly, no doubt moved by the tone of Sansa's voice.

"I would go, but I promised Mycah." She looked away from her sister. Sansa nodded, and turned away from Arya.

Sansa made her way to the camp. Every day, metallic enclosures were raised amongst the Kingsroad, and every-day they were taken down. It was early in the afternoon, and Sansa could smell the various scents of the camp. A roast was cooking somewhere, while in other places; a sweet perfume-like fragrance was smelt. But at the forefront of it all stood the queen's wheelhouse. It shone in the grace of the sun, while a crowd was gathered before it. Sansa approached gingerly, awed by the sight of it. She had seen it before, but never so close . . .

What looked like an honor guard stood around the vehicle. Two men in fine armor with glowing visors stood at the ready, retractable swords at their belts while beam-rifles were held in their hands. Another man wore white plate-mail, and held no ranged weapon. Instead he wore a sword of archaic design tucked away in a gilded sheath. The last man was one of the handsomest men he had ever seen.

He had dark brown hair with dark blue eyes. His face was long and chiseled, and he had a trim body bustling with athletic muscle. A string of cut flower, small balls of herbs, and wood carvings waved in the wind, tied to the root of his hair. His armor was bright green, and the symbol of House Baratheon was etched on its chest. Suddenly, she noticed another. A small and gaunt man with hollow eyes and a head that was devoid of hair on top, while long dark locks descended from the sides of his head. A greatsword was strapped to his back, rusted and well-worn. But the worst thing was his mouth.

The man's lower jaw was completely robotic. Steel teeth touched natural yellow ones as synthetic silver mesh intertwined with exposed pink muscle. His upper lip, the _only _lip he possessed, quivered. Slick with saliva, the liquid dribbled onto the man's metal chin.

_A grotesque. _

Sansa was stepped backwards, only to find herself coming in contact with something soft yet hard.

"Lady Wolf." A rough voice greeted. Sansa turned around to find the man that followed around Joffery. His name was The _Hound. _Sansa fell to her feet and gripped Lady's neck, while The Hound looked down on her with that ruined face of his, grinning with amusement.

"Hound, help up our Lady Stark."

Sansa's eyes widened at the sound of Joffery's voice. He slinked outside of The Hound's shadow, handsome as ever. He wore a red doublet complete with a half-cape that was draped over his shoulder. Black trousers graced his long legs, while high boots were buckled to his legs.

"Prince Joffery." Sansa gasped. The Hound helped her to her feet, while Joffery smiled happily. She returned the expression dumbly, turning around to find the two new arrivals behind her.

The man in the white armor had a kind and weathered face, while the half-mechanical man looked at her with grim and violent eyes.

"His name is Ilyn Payne." Joffery said, taking her hand as Sansa shied away from the man.

"He is the court headsman." Joffery informed.

"And I am Barristan Selmy, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard." The kind man offered his hand.

"My uncle is over there." Joffery pointed towards the wheelhouse.

"The wheelhouse . . . . Oh Joffery! Arya refuses to join us with your mother. I- I talked with her but perhaps you could convince her otherwise." Sansa hoped Arya would listen to Joffery. He _was_ the Prince, after all.

Joffery gave her the warmest smile she had ever seen.

"Of course." He said genuinely, eyes glowing bright.

"Follow me," Sansa said hurriedly.

"Leave us, Hound." Joffery ordered. The man bowed silently as Joffery and Sansa strode away from the camp. He took her hand again, and held it tightly. Along the way he picked her a wild flower, and delicately tied it into her hair. Sansa giggled as he did, and Joffery did not look away while she blushed. He made sure she never stepped into dirtied areas as they walked about the Kingsroad, made sure that she was safe. Sansa felt as if she had drunk a carton of summerwine- her heart soared above with the birds that chirped amongst green and yellow trees. She forgot the cold of Winterfell, and wanted nothing but Joffery's love.

"Ow, _ow!" _

Joffery gave Sansa a look of alarm.

"What is that?" He asked. Sansa saw where she was now- Arya must be on the bank with the common boy.

"Arya." She said breathlessly as they ran about the same bushes that she had circled earlier. They found Arya play fighting with a boy larger than she, who tapped at her legs playfully while Arya giggled. Nymeria sat on the grass, and picked up her head as she heard Joffery and Sansa approach.

"Arya!" Sansa cried.

"I've brought the Prince. You better-"

Joffery had a look in his eyes Sansa had not seen before. He licked his lips, and placed his hand before Sansa's stomach.

"A moment." He said softly. Arya and Mycah stopped playing. Arya gave Joffery a foul look.

"Boy, you do realize that you hit a highborn Lady, don't you?" Joffery started. He moved aside his cape, and Sansa saw the small sword he carried- built for a young _Prince. _

Mycah stuttered. "I- I know, m'lord but-"

"It is grounds for death, to do such a thing. But I will give you something so that you remember your place."

Joffery strode forward, and drew his sword. Mycah did not move, frozen in place as he shivered.

"Stop it!" Arya cried.

Joffery ignored her, and lifted his sword. He pressed it into Mycah's cheek, and dragged the point of his weapon down the boy's face.

"You can tell your children that you bore this scar proudly." Joffery grinned. Mycah whimpered as tears welled at his eyes.

"STOP!" Arya screamed as she hit Joffery with her stick. The Prince howled in pain as he stumbled forward. Mycah ran across the shallow water as Joffery swung his sword about.

"I'll kill you, you little _BITCH!" _He bellowed. Arya danced about Joffery as he swung at her, until finally he swatted her stick away.

"I'm going to cut open your chest." He hissed, stepping forward. Arya looked past him, locking eyes with Sansa. Eyes full of fear.

"Joffery, stop, please!" Sansa begged. Joffery shook his head, a laugh rising from his mouth.

"She started it." He rose his sword-hand while Nymeria pounced. Sansa screamed in unison with Joffery as he was thrown to the ground. Nymeria tore at his arm, snarling as the grass beneath them was stained with blood. Joffery whimpered like a child as Arya watched, dazed.

"Arya, call her off!" Sansa ordered.

Arya bent over, picked up Joffery's sword, and threw it into the deeper portion of the Trident that curled ahead of them. It sunk between frothing rocks as water rushed past them.

"Nymeria, to me." Arya commanded, and her direwolf dropped Joffery's limp arm. They both ran then, following Mycah's path across the Trident. Sansa gingerly approached Joffery, who was curled on the ground.

"I'm sorry- I-" She reached for him, only to see his face contorted in rage as he turned.

"Get _away_ from me!" He cried before breaking down into sobs.

"I'll get the Hound." She said. Sansa lingered by him a moment longer, and then rushed towards the camp.


	27. JON VII

JON

The camp was abuzz. He himself hurriedly sought out his father, who seemed almost invisible amongst the clamor.

_Damn it, Arya. _

Four days go, Sansa and she were to enjoy a meal within the Queen's transport- But the Prince now bore a mangled arm, and Arya was nowhere to be found. The dark sky was alight with bright beacons, search-ships combing the surrounding areas while search parties conducted on-foot investigations. Sound banged in Jon's ears as confusion took its place among him and the others, and he shuddered as cold wind roared by, causing his long dark hair to trail away from his slender neck. Engines boomed as Andal technology roared, filling the air with horrific gusts of black smoke that choked Jon's lungs with every breath.

"Boy, come here."

Jon turned in the mushy ground of the green land that bordered near the seat of House Darry. He found Jaime Lannister standing, white cloak hanging from one shoulder all the way down to the mouth of flapped boots. He had two Lannister men with him, wearing the traditional arms and armor of their House- Red helmets fashioned into the faces of lions, with dark black metallic hauberks and segmented mesh taking up space between vambraces and gauntlets, poleyn and sabatons. Half-capes hung from blood colored pauldrons, while each man carried a deadly rifle in their armored fingers.

"Have they found her?" Jon asked, hopefully as he stepped forward. Jaime Lannister nodded brusquely.

"One of your Northmen. If you are to be my squire, I decided to seek you out personally. For a test, of sorts." Jaime spoke easily, but underneath his voice there was a brimming craftiness that offset Jon's thoughts.

"Where is she being kept?" Jon inquired as they walked through the camp as news of Arya's capture spread from man to man. Warmachines zoomed by, throwing their cloaks and clothing into the mercy of the howling winds. Jon's own cloak traveled far above his body, pulling at his neck as the fabric attempted to flee.

"In the court of Castle Darry, boy. I want you to watch and see what happens to your dear sister. I will not have a squire who will attempt to kill me at the first opportunity." Jaime grunted as they began to climb up a slightly steep hill, while the pointed roofs of Castle Darry came into sight.

"What does this have to do with my betrayal?" Jon questioned.

"A man who can watch one of his families being charged with a crime while remaining steadfast in his duty to his realm is a man who has forgotten everything save for his honor."

Jon remained silent as they crossed a green field to the Castle of Darry. Ships lingered about the castle's towers like bees buzzing around a hive. Columns of men marched into the castle's small walls, while a Darry flag wavered in the air. They made their way to the steel gates as they opened, Lannister men taking up place while Darry troops intermingled with them. The men bowed to Jaime and gave Jon quizzical looks as the boy lurked in the lion's shadow. They stepped into a finely made courtyard: Numerous small fountains bubbled, no larger than dinner plates as they circled a large area, wherein a gigantic statue of a naked woman was found, her hands raised while spouts of water jutted from hoses drilled into the ground about her. They passed this construction, entering a building and traversing down a long hall, all of this done in steep silence. Guardsmen stood at a wooden door, and opened it as Jaime strode through as Jon slinked after the man. They walked into a crowded room, Lannister colors nearly blinding Jon as he followed Jaime behind the backs of watching men. They found a place near the corner of the room, and Jon saw Arya as she stood before the King and Queen. Prince Joffery stood beside them, and though Jon could not see his face, he saw that his sleeve was rolled up to reveal a bloodied bandage.

_It is worse than I thought. _

"What would you have me do, Lord Eddard?" Cersei asked as Jon's jaw tightened. He then noticed his father, who stood solemnly some ways away from Arya, his face half-cast in darkness.

"There are two variations of the story, Your Grace. One of these children is lying." He said with an uncharacteristically loud voice.

"It's her! She's the liar!" Joffery started suddenly, waving his wounded arm about.

"You all see my arm! You see what she did!" Joffery's voice reached a whining crescendo.

"You tried to kill Micah!" Arya growled, her eyes darkening at the sight of Joffery as Jon curled his hands into fists.

_Nymeria must have been protecting them from Joffery . . . _

"Joffery has told me that you and this peasant boy attacked him, and then set your wolf upon his person." Cersei spoke almost casually.

"This is not getting us anywhere," Eddard began.

"We have been through this nearly six times. Each of them have a different story."

"Call in Sansa, then." Cersei offered. Eddard's eyes widened, but then nodded as he sent Jory Cassel to go and retrieve Jon's half-sister.

_Sansa was there . . . but what will she say? _Jon's thoughts grew anxious as he felt Jaime's eyes watching him. Jon inhaled deeply, wiping the sweat from his nose. Shortly, Jory returned with Sansa, who walked before the queen with large blue eyes shivering with a watery shield.

"Your Grace," She said respectfully, kneeling politely, as well as her dress would allow.

"Sansa. You no doubt know why you have been called in here." Cersei stated. Jon's heart beat faster.

"Yes, My Grace. I . . . I have been asked to settle a dispute." Sansa answered carefully.

"Good. Then I shall be brief. Did Arya and her boy attack Joffery, or did Joffery attempt to kill the butcher?" Cersei asked. The entire room seemed to fall into another plane of silence, deeper and more complete than the first.

"Let us see what she says," Jaime whispered as Jon focused on Sansa. She seemed to be fighting a battle of wills within herself, and her hands flexed at her sides. Finally, she swallowed hard and spoke.

"Arya and Micah attacked Joffery." She bowed her head as Arya let out a savage scream.

"_Sansa! You know that isn't true!" _Arya cried. Jon allowed his eyes to shift towards the visage of his father. Eddard Stark's face was a mask, unable to be read.

"Kill the wolf." Cersei ordered. Jory Cassel stepped slightly forward from his position by Sansa's side.

"My Grace, it seems that Arya's wolf has run off. We could not find it."

"There is another wolf, correct?"

Jon could almost feel Cersei's green eyes weighing Sansa down with their weight.

"No. You can't. Lady- She didn't do anything! She's innocent!" Sansa began to sob as tears formed and fell down her pale cheeks.

"Robert, you cannot allow this." Eddard said with a hint of incredulousness. Jon heard Robert Baratheon sigh from his small space in the corner, and after that there was no sound, save for the sound of Sansa's now-silent tears dripping onto the metal flooring.

"Eddard . . . a wolf is no pet for a girl." The King said softly.

"Ser Illyn, kill the wolf and bring me its cloak." Cersei commanded.

"No. Lady is of the North, and deserves to be killed by the gentle hand of her kin." Eddard eyed Cersei for a long moment, until finally Cersei waved her hand and relented.

"As you wish, as long as the wolf is dead."

Jon had to keep from screaming. Cersei had been somewhat kind to him at Winterfell, and he even detected a sense of pity from her. So why was she being so cruel now?

_Because Sansa has been catered to her entire life. How many times have you been Sansa, while Lady Stark played the role of Cersei? She is giving out a hard justice that you have been fed for years. _

"What do you think, Snow?" Jaime looked at him through the corner of his eyes. Jon turned his head and met Jaime's gaze.

"Nothing. Nothing at all."


	28. Bran III

BRAN

_Fly. _

Brandon Stark gasped as he gulped air that tore through his lungs with horrific force. He opened his eyes against what seemed like demonic pressure as his cheeks were pulled backward. He felt his stomach rise into his chest as he fell, squinting eyes barely able to open as they were continually forced shut. He saw, somewhat, thick clouds quickly rising up to him. Behind the puffy elements he thought he saw glimpses of a great city, shining and resplendent. But then his eyes were drawn shut by the ferocity of the wind. He fell in darkness, and spent what seemed like an eternity there until he heard a voice.

"You're going to die." It said to him. Bran felt as if he crashed into a pool of water, the cool liquid breaking itself apart across his pallid face and frail body. He groaned at the sudden and intrusive pain, fighting his eye open only to see he was even closer to the ground.

"To survive, you need to fly."

Out of the corner of his vision, Bran saw a black crow. Despite the fact they were both falling, the crow seemed to be able to control its descent but at the same time maintain and equal Bran's speed. Thick ebony wings were spread against the wind, individual feathers rippling like tiny capes.

"You are a crow." Bran said, despite the pain it caused him to talk. The crow's eyes, like two smooth onyx pebbles, seemed to shine in the glow of a missing sun.

"And you are falling. You _will_ die, unless you fly."

Bran's eyes widened as the ground grew closer. The city he saw earlier was now awash with flame, sparks flying from various sky-scrapers as they crumbled to the earth, gigantic mechanical buildings groaning as they fell into death. Bran began to cry at the sight, and he heard the crow _tsk. _

"Your tears will not cushion the fall. Fly, boy. It is easy." The crow flapped its wings in demonstration. Bran frowned through his tears. He could begin to feel the heat that was rising from below.

"I do not have wings. How can I fly?" Bran asked.

"There are different types of flying."

"What is this?" Bran cried as he sped past a splintering spire. He heard the metal groan and bend until it finally broke, dollops of melting steel falling past him as the gigantic tower leaned over in a state of half-life. Fire exploded below him, almost mushy-looking clouds of thick flame that enveloped tiny collections of smaller buildings. It was unbearably hot.

"I am teaching you how to fly." The crow answered simply.

Bran held his hands out before him in an attempt to protect himself. He closed his eyes again . . . and he saw something else. He saw armies standing across each other, banners he did not recognize waving in the wind. He saw a young woman playing with a dark-haired boy, and he saw a forest that was abundant with falling snow in the darkness, while blue pupils watched from shadowy havens between ancient wood. He hears the voice of his father and what sounded like King Robert; but he saw his mother holding a dagger, onboard a ship that crossed a black sea. He saw Sansa cry as she curled in her bed, while Arya loomed above her on a cloud of shadow, her face grim and downcast. He saw Jon but heard voice he did not recognize, a voice speaking to Jon. It asked him how he felt, to which Jon said nothing, and as those words left his lips Bran heard a blood curdling scream as his vision was filled with bright blood and flower petals. A warm passed over him and he heard a gasp and then a murmur. Above it all, an armored knight stood with a visor filled with curdled blood that seeped through the grill of the mouthpiece. He hears a roar and the victorious shouts of a woman, while armies marched underneath her outstretched arm. He returns again to the forest of snow, and sees again the gaze of the pale blue eyes.

"Fly or die!" The crow screams, forcing Bran to open his eyes. He was a few feet away from the bubbling inferno below. He could feel his skin begin to crawl backwards as it was burned and charred. He screamed, no, _bellowed . . . _and suddenly he was rising.

_Flying!_ He rose higher and higher, and as he did the destruction he saw that was wrought to the land below was reversed, clouds rolling across the ground below faster than the eye could see. He watched as the city slowly dwindled until it was nothing but a small collection of wooden and stone buildings, and then even after that it was nothing but land greener than any field Bran had ever seen. He laughed as he inhaled the fresh air, felt the wind brushing his hair to the side of his head. He felt free, he felt-

The crow was in front of Bran's face. The boy's smile fell as a black beak punctured his eye. Bran howled in pain, attempting to cover his remaining eye, only for the crow to squeeze a thin beak between his emaciated fingers and blind him. Blackness took his eyesight as he felt a burning pain on his forehead . . . but at that moment he saw a vast tree with roots going deep into the earth. He saw faces within the tree, similar to the Godswood but only the trunk of the tree held thousands of faces, not just one. As he reached out for the image, he opened his eyes to see a dark-haired washwoman attending to him. He looked at her coolly, and she dropped her basin, yelling at the top of her lungs.

"he's awake! He's awake!" She cried. As she left Bran's direwolf jumped onto his bed, sniffing at him while he regarded the boy with intelligent eyes. Bran locked his gaze with that of his wolf, until Robb came striding in. With a small smile, he spoke.

"Summer. His name is Summer."


	29. BENJEN

BENJEN

"The Lord Commander told us to turn back."

Even over the communications comm, Benjen Stark could still hear the faint chitter of teeth that came along with Reginald's whiney protest. Outside of his _Wraith, _Benjen could see the minuscule black dots of his fellow Rangers. Snow whirled about them, and every so often his hovering wraith would buckle under the assault of heavy winds. Despite being inside the craft, Benjen was cold as well. He sighed and rubbed numb fingers together, and then clicked on his own communication's device.

"He told us if we didn't find anything _interesting _to turn back. But what did we find, Reginald?" Benjen leaned back in his pilot's chair, white gusts of breath coming from pale lips. The Wraith was nearly one hundred years old, gifted to the Watch by Dareon II Targaryen. What had once been an impressive fleet of nearly three hundred crafts had now dwindled to a measly twenty, and of those seven needed repairs.

"Deserted villages, but no sign of violence or conflict." Reginald muttered. Benjen did feel somewhat sorry for the man- He was a southron, and not used to the frigid weather even after nearly twenty years on the wall.

"Correct. And Wildlings have been _fleeing _ towards us. So why would groups of people be going deeper into the Far North? What is calling them?" Benjen himself had been pondering that question.

_Winter is coming. _He allowed his mind then to drift to his brother, and the man's sons. Out of all of them, Benjen often found himself thinking of Jon. He smiled at the vision of the sullen and dark youth, wondering what he would do if he too, were on the wall.

"Mance Ryder, most like." The gruff voice of Delan Nott broke the static-filled silence of the shared communication channels between the rangers. While they were not in Wraiths, the footmen wore similarly aged heatsuits- skin-tight black leather buffed by a bulwark of iron and steel and heated by tiny circuits of electricity. Despite this, the chill of the North still seeped through the creations of man.

"I agree, Delan. The man calls himself King-Beyond-The-Wall. A Lord of Frost and Snow." Benjen maneuvered his wraith ahead, following the trail of his Rangers below. Tall trees topped with frost stood jagged and sharp like daggers, while a white horizon shifted and shuddered, revealing a dark nighttime sky that curled upwards and outlined the stars above. The controls of the wraith were jerky and nearly unresponsive, making the way difficult. Benjen constantly had to reposition the weight of the craft as it stuttered in the air.

"Benjen. Come down, and quick." Delan's voice was hurried yet eerily quiet.

"What is it?" Benjen clicked at the controls, lessening the gravitational repulsion, squeezing between trees as branches sent piles of snow onto the smooth glass of the wraith.

"Bodies. Come quickly."

Nestled between two large weirwoods, Benjen unbuckled himself and dressed for the elements. Placing the heavy heat-suit helmet over his face, he inhaled deeply as all openings were sealed shut with a hiss. Sound was a muffled whisper while the cockpit slowly creased open, the full brunt of the cold hitting him like an icy wall. He stepped out of the craft, and jumped onto ground that was covered with a hard sheet of permafrost.

"Over here, First Ranger." Reginald called, waving his hand. Benjen buckled his sword to his belt, stepping forward towards his men, who were nothing but black spots in the distance. A heavy and ragged cloak billowed behind him as he moved, a chill rising through his legs and then into his groan and finally upwards to his head with each step. His men all stood with their backs facing him, enraptured by a small clearing among the sentinel trees. Snow dappled Benjen's visor while he moved closer, A helmeted head turning to face him.

"Six. Six bodies. There may be more." Delan reached for his sword. Benjen stepped forward, pausing at the shoulders of his men but then continuing onto the bodies. The comm. channel was nothing but a quiet buzz in Benjen's ear as he came close to the cluster of corpses. They were white with cold, lips crusted underneath a sheen of frost. Blonde hair common amongst the Wildlings was a dull sheen, crisp and sprayed by the cold. The servos of Benjen's heatsuit whined in aged protest when he knelt down to inspect one of the bodies. With a hand clasped in iron, he reached towards the closest one- a girl no older than thirteen years. It was then he noticed the eyes.

They were blue. Blue eyes were another common feature among the Wildlings, but the eyes of this girl were blue-within blue, a dull dark and ghastly color that was indiscernible from afar. He rejected the urge to recoil from the body, moving a hand down a cheek that was as hard as stone.

"The hands. Look at the hands." One ranger said, nearly causing Benjen to jump at the sudden sound that bleeped in his ear.

"By the Seven . . . they're black. The feet as well."

"The Seven have no place here, Southron." Another ranger quipped. Benjen raised his hand, but kept his eyes on the body before him.

"Enough." He said with finality. The squabbling men fell silent.

"We need to bring the bodies back to The Wall." Benjen turned to his men.

"Arlund, send a message to-" Benjen stopped as a scream was heard from the men.

"_Benjen!" _ Delan cried. Benjen whirled on his feet, drawing his sword as it sprung into life. Before him, stood a massive corpse, thick in chest and arm. Blue eyes offered no mercy as its hands groped for Benjen. With trained skill, he hacked off the arm of the monster, but it kept coming. Containing his fear, he jumped backward as the creature staggered forward, the uneven weight causing it to stumble. Benjen struck again, but this time at the beast's neck. With a wordless howl, Benjen's sharp blade removed the head of the creature from its body . . . but the corpse kept coming.

"Seven hells!" one of his men cried as Delan moved forward. At close range, he lifted his rifle and fired six shots into the creature. Despite the cold, the heat from Delan's weapon caused the monster's tattered clothing to alight in flame, a unholy whine coming from the being as it writhed on the ground.

"That was one of the bodies. It _got back up . . ." _ Reginald gasped. Benjen was glad he had Delan with him. The man had acted quickly and accordingly- unlike some of the other rangers who accompanied him.

_But can I blame these men? What the hell was that? _

It was then a piercing scream filled the night. The air shifted and whirled, somehow growing _colder _ as light formed before the corpses. It took shape, moved, and it wasn't until that point Benjen realized it wasn't light- it was _ice. _Pale flesh spread over the frozen skeleton, bright water-colored eyes forming from a taut yet eerily beautiful face. The resplendent being was dressed in strange armor, and held a blade paler than its skin. As light touched the sword, colors of black and gray moved about the edge, like spirits attempting to free themselves.

Benjen didn't know who was the first to start running, but from the sound he heard behind him, he knew that the man was the first to die.

"There's a second!" One ranger screamed as confusion took them.

"Focus! FOCUS!" Benjen harried, raising his blade in defense as the strange being moved forward.

_Others. This is what the Wildlings are fleeing from. Others. Creatures of the Night. Beings of Winter. _

Cries were heard all around as men fell and died. More Others materialized around them, cutting through their reinforced heatsuits with terrifying ease. Before long, Benjen was the only one left. His breathing was erratic as the Others closed in, circling him while their cries caused blood to drip from his ears. He fell to the ground, eyes closing as the Others stood over him, swords raised while the stars watched impassively above.


	30. CATELYNN IV

(A/N) So this story is one of my favorites, and has been getting follows. FOLLOWERS! Please review! I have no idea how you guys think the story is going if you don't review! So please do so!

CATELYNN

"It won't be far now, Lady Stark."

Catelynn had lost touch with time. Ever since she had taken the airship from Winterfell, time had been nothing to her except the gray haze of rolling clouds that ruled her vision below.

She had forgotten what it felt like to fly.

With every shudder, every jolt she felt her stomach tighten, and more than once she had to keep herself from berating the pilot who flew the craft, holding back her venomous words every time she felt them descend too quickly, or increase their height in the air so fast that she felt her ears popping. However, as the days and hours passed she grew to calm herself. Unlike in Winterfell, the Tullys embraced Andal technology- Catelynn remembered fondly when she and Lysa would find themselves high above the ground, passengers within zooming airships that spat out perfect pillars of black smoke in their wake. However, she also remembered the sight of burning fields and destroyed castles- while massive airships loomed over their burning trophies of victory. After the war, Catelynn had found some respite in the fact that Winterfell hid most traces of technology. Many Andal conventions were convenient- but most of them had the great power to end many lives. That is one thing that she did not miss about the South.

And now Catelynn Stark of Winterfell will find herself in King's Landing. She wondered if Eddard had arrived with her girls yet- she longed to see them. Sansa with her bright hair and blue eyes, Arya with those somber brown pupils and a wide wolfish grin. But she knew no one could know of this meeting. Her hands still held the dagger that the assassin had planned to use on her defenseless son. Anger rose in her throat, roared in her temples.

_Who could kill a boy? What ambition would cause this madness? _

"My Lady, come look." Rodrik had stood up long before he spoke, a thing that Catelynn did not wish to attempt in her state.

"Rodrik, I do not wish to-" Catelynn began, but to her chagrin Ser Rodrik came to her, pulling Catelynn from her seat. She sighed as she was dragged to the viewports, their pilot giving them annoyed glances as they gaped out of curving windows.

King's Landing was a golden metropolis.

Ships of finer make than theirs filled the skies, while self contained flotillas lazily drifted above pointed skyscrapers, bright green trees growing within the islands. Smaller crafts sped between buildings of business, and among all of this people were seen riding personal gravitational platforms, regal and elegant in fine dressings. Despite this, the old world still shone through the new. Streets were of cobbled stone, and past the black smog of the higher levels, Catelynn could spot the back of a horse drawn carriage, while tiny dots of children ran between them. Their ship veered as they flew towards one of the many ports. King's Landing may be magnificent, but the one thing that drew everyone's eye was not the skyscrapers, the tiny flotillas, or even the smell of freshly baked goods that wafted through the air.

It was the Red Keep. Standing upon an artificial mountain of stone, the castle soaked in the gleam of the sun. The walls were of a dark bloody red, battlements pointed and menacing as military ships hovered before it. Above all of that, the main castle floated. A layered pyramid sitting upon nothing, the Baratheon flag waved on every corner.

"Still as imposing as always." Rodrik muttered as they shied past the Keep. Their pilot weaved in and out of air-traffic, until finally they descended to port. Some ways away from the Red Keep, the old world was readily visible here. As they touched down on the landing pad, Catelynn spied a young boy leading horses through dusty streets. Men dressed in the armor of the City Watch patrolled in groups of twos, large rifles resting on black pauldrons. Their unmarked craft dipped softly, the landing gear legs groaning in whispered protest. Catelynn pulled her hood over her head while Rodrik paid their pilot. The man nodded brusquely, pressing the controls that lowered the shuttle ramp. The smell of squalor and decay instantly hit Catelynn's nose as Rodrik lead her out into the city, leaving the sparsely crowded port. Lonely and dusty streets greeted them, with old brick buildings that bore sagging roofs. Occasionally a horse would come trotting by- and sitting in the saddle would be a black-and-gold member of the City Watch, a full-helm covering his visage. Other than that, this portion of King's Landing was eerily silent. Sometimes, Catelynn would spot a man leaning out of his window, smoking and tapping black ash from his wooden pipe. Rodrik brought Catelynn into a small and dingy inn. Even here, the people seemed dazed and dead. Behind the counter, the innkeeper eyed Catelynn with bored pupils, going back to his work without a wasted word. Despite all of this, there was one man who instantly drew her attention.

Small, with his face covered by a light cowl, he sat at the counter with crossed legs, drinking a spirit that seemed harder than he was. A brightly colored ponytail could be seen curving down his slim neck, and into the back collar of the tunic he wore underneath a blue cloak. Beside him, two unassuming men sat, but Catelynn could see the outline of weapons within the folds of their clothing. Before she could react, the slight man jumped from his seat and approached her.

"My Lady," He bowed, removing his hood with a flourish. Catelynn stepped backwards in shock, her hand going to her mouth.

"Peytr Baelish . . . how did you know?" She gasped. Everything she had done to stay hidden may have been compromised. If the Throne knows that she is here . . .

"I have my ways, Cat. However, you mustn't worry. For now, I am the only person with knowledge about your place here. I have rented a room." Peytr said, walking off without a response from Catelynn. Giving Rodrik a brisk nod, she picked up her skirts and hurriedly followed Peytr. They found themselves in a small square room, a tiny heat post found at the edge of a lumpy bed. Peytr went to the open window and closed it with delicate fingers, while Rodrik himself closed the doors behind him as he entered. Peytr paused at the window, before turning and greeting Cat with a sly smile.

"Lady Stark. It has been some time."

"You look the same, Peytr." Catelynn said. Peytr nodded, and then looked past her, glancing at Rodrik and giving her a quizzical glance.

"His name is Rodrik Cassel. One of Eddard's men." Catelynn informed. Peytr smiled warmly at the man, and then refocused his attention on Catelynn.

"Now, if I may ask, why have you come to King's Landing? I know that Eddard has been chosen to become the new Hand . . . "

Catelynn did not answer with her words. Rather, she pulled the ornate dagger that threatened her son's life and presented it to Peytr. The man's eyes widened, and then settled into thin slits as his mouth curled.

"Why are you presenting me with the dagger of _Tyrion Lannister?" _


	31. JON VIII

(A/N) Well guys, I'm sorry about the lapse in the amount of updates. I seemed to have made too many fanfics, and it has come to the point where because of that I didn't update any of them for a while. So here's the next chapter, and hopefully I'll be able to update more often. Also.. I've kept this fanfic as faithful to the story as possible. I'm glad you guys like the sci-fi twist, and I'm glad you haven't found it overbearing, because that was one of my goals. Honestly, I love making worlds that are seemingly contradictory, and I believe that the technology in this fanfic is realistic in the realm of fiction (if that makes sense). But here comes the first true divergence. Jon, at this point in the main series, is at the Wall. Obviously in this fanfic he is with the Lannisters. I had trouble figuring how Jon would come across all of the people on the wall, and after much thought, I decided not to transfer those characters. This fanfic is about new experiences, and bringing those characters on the wall over would not only ruin the story, but cheapen the alternate world as well. But fear not! Another character will take Jon's place at the wall, which again will be a recurring theme within this fanfiction: Changes, but not uncomfortable changes that keep the plot familiar while also retaining a sense of originality and freshness. So, without further ado, here's the next Jon chapter.

JON VIII

"Where is the King and Queen? Have they not arrived yet?"

Jaime Lannister frowned, leaning forward and pressing the red communication button that jutted from the flight control system boards. With a sigh, he rolled his eyes at Tyrion, who in turn gave him a sly grin.

"We decided to outpace them. Our dear King loves taking his time on the road, it seems. However, I would like to know why I am being questioned." Jaime responded with a steel tone.

"I-er, Lord Varys asked me to-"

"Tell Lord _catamite _that it is not his place to worry about the King's whereabouts. Make sure the dockmen are prepared to receive us." Jaime flicked off the comm without waiting for the man to respond. Jon settled in his chair, attempting to control his beating heart. Every time he looked out a nearby window, he felt as if he would faint. _So high! _he thought to himself, as their sleek craft rode on the tails of wispy clouds. Below, between the white haze, tops of buildings impaling the white vast sea, blinking tips of spires matching the beats of Jon's heart.

"You've never been so high, have you?" Tyrion turned in his seat to look at Jon with mis-matched eyes. The dwarf was horrific in appearance, and Jon had a hard time focusing on the subject of his conversation whenever Tyrion engaged him. But now, he was eager for any distraction to keep his mind off of the soupy depths below.

"No . . . I haven't. Up North-"

"Yes, yes, yes up _North _ this up _North_ that. Must you always compare everything to your home?" Tyrion waved his hand at Jon, painting a rueful grin on his face in the process.

"It's the only place I've ever known." Jon whispered defensively, wishing he was within the comfort of his own chambers, with ghost sleeping beside his bed. Jon's direwolf _was_ with them- albeit in a separate and small room, where non-harmful fumes were spouted into the air, which encouraged sleep and calm. Jon wished he was under such a spell. The ship jumped downward, causing the young boy to grip at the arm rests under his wrists.

"You'll get used to it. Tis not easy, being taken from your home. It won't be easy here, either. But its better than being on an icy chopping block." Tyrion said as he shuffled in his own chair. Their ship delved past the clouds, the pale ghostly fingers sliding across viewports and revealing a vast city in their wake. Buildings were everywhere- tall and thick and magnificent, with lights that rivaled the power of night-time stars. The lower skies buzzed with traffic, various ships going about business while flat panels devoid of roofs transported exotically dressed people to and fro floating islands. Jon marveled at the tiny worlds- each flotilla seemed to emulate a different environment. Jon saw snowy miniature caps, a contained sea with artificial waves, and even a sandy desert among all of the miniature continents sitting upon a cushion of air.

"Amazing.." Jon said breathlessly as their ship passed by a flotilla that had the appearance of a vast forest.

"They are. More expensive but also of higher quality than a V-room. Precants, they're called. The rich use them, the military uses them… you may find yourself within one very soon, in fact."

"How do you possess this power? How did the North . . ."

"Fall so far behind?" Jaime finished, turning around in his seat beside the pilot and flashing a grin.

"We can blame the Targaryens. The Andals had technology before . . . the North even less, but they still possessed some sort of brute science. But when Aegon invaded . . . he set forth a series of reforms, in order to make King's Landing as similar to his homeworld as possible. It is said before the Doom, the Valaryian Empire rivaled the salvation that the Seven offered. Now, most of that technology is lost. On the planet of Essos, you'll find nothing but skeletal remains of a former people, while their descendants try to decipher old writings and manuscripts, but to no avail."

The ship slowed to a halt, a gigantic pyramid that sat atop layered mountain-like steppes taking up Jon's vision.

"Oh how I've missed the Red Keep. " Tyrion said with a whistle. Their craft entered a black maw as hangar doors spread open, people scurrying within it like busy ants. Men with glowing rods directed their pilot, who softly descended and then landed, the craft bouncing on its gear legs. From underneath his window, Jon saw men pulling large black hoses to the ship as the shuttle ramp landed loudly on the metal floor. His buckles undid themselves, and he stood uneasily in the cockpit, gathering his bearings before following Jaime and Tyrion off of the craft.

"My direwolf-" He started, before Jaime turned on his heels.

"Will be provided to you once you have been settled." He said with a narrowing of his eyes. Tyrion turned as well, looking up at Jon with a face that betrayed his amusement.

"And he does not look very settled, brother."

Jon reddened as he followed closely behind their sniggers, Jaime's cape hissing as it slid across the ground. Upon leaving the hangar, Jon was greeted by dual hallways that could fit at least four horses side by side, while men in army regalia walked up and down the curving paths. Machines, of much finer make than the ones found in Winterfell, buzzed, beeped, and talked as orders were given to them. Jon felt very small making his way along with the Lannister brothers, people giving him strange looks as he shouldered past. He did look somewhat different from them- his dark hair and somber eyes favored the old blood, while these men had more varied features. They came to a room with walls entirely made out of glass, a gigantic main hanger visible below. Lines upon lines of aircraft waited from the ceiling like sleeping bats, their design sleek and venomous.

"The Red Keep is the most fortified place within King's Landing. An airship fleet that rivals entire kingdoms rests here."

"Do you command these men?" Jon asked. Jaime's jaw tensed as they stood within the glass room, which to Jon's alarm, began to speed upwards.

"No. That honor belongs to the King."

They rose from the bowels of the hangar bay and into a much less militarized area. Upon leaving the moving room, a woman was waiting for them at the forefront of a sprawling common's square, complete with growing flowers and even trees that were watered by snaking canals covered by thin sheets of glass.

"Lord Jaime, Lord Tyrion." She said with a bow of her head. She flashed a look at Jon, but did not greet him.

"This is Jon Snow, son of Eddard Stark but not a Stark himself. Cersei has taken an interest in him it seems, so he will be staying with us here. Find a room for him, and then call the hangars about his direwolf. He will begin his training on the morrow. Make sure he is rested and ready." Jaime said. If the dark-haired girl objected to any of this or questioned it, she did not display such feeling on her visage. She simply nodded, and slid her arm into Jon's, leading him away from Tyrion and Jaime.

"You're a bastard too, hm?" She said conversationally.

Jon's eyes widened as he furrowed his brows at her. She laughed jovially, looking down and then flashing him yet again with her shining black eyes.

"My name is Mya _Stone." _


End file.
